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           Ȳ¹«Áö 1. Á×Àº ÀÚÀÇ ¸ÅÀå           The Waste Land 1....

           ¾ËÇÁ·¿ ÇÁ·çÇÁ·ÏÀÇ ¿¬°¡             The Love Song Of Alfred Prufrock

           È÷½ºÅ׸®                                 Hysteria

           ¹Ù¶÷ºÎ´Â ¹ãÀÇ ±¤½Ã°î                 Rapsody On A Windy Night

           ¹ö¾ðÆ® ³ë¿Àư-'4ÁßÁÖ°î' ¿¡¼­     Burnt Norton 1. from The Quartets  
                                    

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The Waste Land

                           -  Thomas Sterns Eliot


"Nam Sibyllam quidem Cumis ego ipse oculis meis vidi in ampulla
pendere, et cum illi pueri dicerent: Sibulla ti qeleiz; respondebat illa:
apoqanein qelw."

For Ezra Pound
il miglior fabbro.


I. The Burial of the Dead


April is the cruelest month, breeding

Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing

Memory and desire, stirring

Dull roots with spring rain.

Winter kept us warm, covering

Earth in forgetful snow, feeding

A little life with dried tubers.

Summer surprised us, coming over the Starnbergersee

With a shower of rain; we stopped in the colonnade,

And went on in sunlight, into the Hofgarten,

And drank coffee, and talked for an hour.

Bin gar keine Russin, stamm' aus Litauen, echt deutsch.

And when we were children, staying at the arch-duke's,

My cousin's, he took me out on a sled,

And I was frightened. He said, Marie,

Marie, hold on tight. And down we went.

In the mountains, there you feel free.

I read, much of the night, and go south in the winter.


What are the roots that clutch, what branches grow

Out of this stony rubbish? Son of man,

You cannot say, or guess, for you know only

A heap of broken images, where the sun beats,

And the dead tree gives no shelter, the cricket no relief,

And the dry stone no sound of water. Only

There is shadow under this red rock,
(Come in under the shadow of this red rock),

And I will show you something different from either

Your shadow at morning striding behind you

Or you shadow at evening rising to meet you;

I will show you fear in a handful of dust.

Frisch weht der Wind

Der Heimat zu

Mein Irisch Kind

Wo weilest du?

'You gave me hyacinths first a year ago;

'They called me the hyacinth girl.'

-Yet when we came back, late, from the hyacinth garden,

Your arms full, and your hair wet, I could not

Speak, and my eyes failed, I was neither

Living nor dead, and I knew nothing,

Looking into the heart of light, the silence.

Oed' und leer das Meer.


Madame Sosostris, famous clairvoyante,

Had a bad cold, nevertheless

Is known to be the wisest woman in Europe,

With a wicked pack of cards. Here, said she,

Is your card, the drowned Phoenician Sailor,
(Those are pearls that were his eyes. Look!)

Here is Belladonna, the Lady of the Rocks,

The lady of situations.

Here is the man with three staves, and here the Wheel,

And here is the one-eyed merchant, and this card,

Which is blank, is something he carries on his back,

Which I am forbidden to see. I do not find

The Hanged Man. Fear death by water.

I see crowds of people, walking round in a ring.

Thank you. If you see dear Mrs. Equitone,

Tell her I bring the horoscope myself:

One must be so careful these days.


Unreal City,

Under the brown fog of a winter dawn,

A crowd flowed over London Bridge, so many,

I had not thought death had undone so many.

Sighs, short and infrequent, were exhaled,

And each man fixed his eyes before his feet.

Flowed up the hill and down King William Street,

To where Saint Mary Woolnoth kept the hours

With a dead sound on the final stroke of nine.

There I saw one I knew, and stopped him, crying: 'Stetson!

'You who were with me in the ships at Mylae!

'That corpse you planted last year in your garden,

'Has it begun to sprout? Will it bloom this year?

'Or has the sudden frost disturbed its bed?

'O keep the Dog far hence, that's friend to men,

'Or with his nails he'll dig it up again!

'You! Hypocrite lecteur!-mon senblable,-mon frere!'


 
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The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock

               - Thomas Sterns Eliot


S'io credesse che mia risposta fosse

A persona che mai tornasse al mondo,

Questa fiamma staria senza piu scosse.

Ma perciocche giammai di questo fondo

Non torno vivo alcun, s'i'odo il vero,

Senza tema d'infamia ti rispondo.


Let us go then, you and I,

When the evening is spread out against the sky

Like a patient etherised upon a table;

Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets,

The muttering retreats

Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels

And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells:

Streets that follow like a tedious argument

Of insidious intent

To lead you to an overwhelming question. . .

Oh, do not ask, "What is it?"

Let us go and make our visit.


In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.


The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes

The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes

Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening

Lingered upon the pools that stand in drains,

Let fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys,

Slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap,

And seeing that it was a soft October night,

Curled once about the house, and fell asleep.


And indeed there will be time

For the yellow smoke that slides along the street,

Rubbing its back upon the window-panes;

There will be time, there will be time

To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;

There will be time to murder and create,

And time for all the works and days of hands

That lift and drop a question on your plate;

Time for you and time for me,

And time yet for a hundred indecisions

And for a hundred visions and revisions,

Before the taking of a toast and tea.


In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.


And indeed there will be time

To wonder, "Do I dare?" and, "Do I dare?"

Time to turn back and descend the stair,

With a bald spot in the middle of my hair --

[They will say: "How his hair is growing thin!"]

My morning coat, my collar mounting firmly to the chin,

My necktie rich and modest, but asserted by a simple pin --
[They will say: "But how his arms and legs are thin!"]

Do I dare

Disturb the universe?

In a minute there is time

For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.


For I have known them all already, known them all: --

Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons,

I have measured out my life with coffee spoons;

I know the voices dying with a dying fall

Beneath the music from a farther room. [Opus 130, No. 2]

So how should I presume?


And I have known the eyes already, known them all --

The eyes that fix you in a formulated phrase,

And when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin,

When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall,

Then how should I begin

To spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways?

And how should I presume?


And I have known the arms already, known them all --

Arms that are braceleted and white and bare
[But in the lamplight, downed with light brown hair!]

Is it perfume from a dress

That makes me so digress?

Arms that lie along a table, or wrap about a shawl.

And should I then presume?

And how should I begin?


. . . . .


Shall I say, I have gone at dusk through narrow streets

And watched the smoke that rises from the pipes

Of lonely men in shirt-sleeves, leaning out of windows? . . .


I should have been a pair of ragged claws
Scuttling across the floors of silent seas. . . . . .


And the afternoon, the evening, sleeps so peacefully!

Smoothed by long fingers,

Asleep . . tired . . or it malingers,

Stretched on the floor, here beside you and me.

Should I, after tea and cakes and ices,

Have the strength to force the moment to its crisis?

But though I have wept and fasted, wept and prayed,

Though I have seen my head [grown slightly bald] brought in upon a

platter,

I am no prophet -- and here's no great matter;

I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker,

And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker,

And in short, I was afraid.


And would it have been worth it, after all,

After the cups, the marmalade, the tea,

Among the porcelain, among some talk of you and me,

Would it have been worth while,

To have bitten off the matter with a smile,

To have squeezed the universe into a ball

To roll it toward some overwhelming question,

To say: "I am Lazarus, come from the dead,

Come back to tell you all, I shall tell you all" --

If one, settling a pillow by her head,

Should say, "That is not what I meant at all.

That is not it, at all."


And would it have been worth it, after all,

Would it have been worth while,

After the sunsets and the dooryards and the sprinkled streets,

After the novels, after the teacups, after the skirts that trail along
the floor --
And this, and so much more? --
It is impossible to say just what I mean!
But as if a magic lantern threw the nerves in patterns on a screen:
Would it have been worth while
If one, settling a pillow or throwing off a shawl,
And turning toward the window, should say:
"That is not it at all,
That is not what I meant, at all." . . . . .


No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be;
Am an attendant lord, one that will do
To swell a progress, start a scene or two
Advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool,
Deferential, glad to be of use,
Politic, cautious, and meticulous;
Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse;
At times, indeed, almost ridiculous --
Almost, at times, the Fool.


I grow old . . . I grow old . . .
I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.


Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach?
I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach.
I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.


I do not think they will sing to me.


I have seen them riding seaward on the waves
Combing the white hair of the waves blown back
When the wind blows the water white and black.


We have lingered in the chambers of the sea
By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown
Till human voices wake us, and we drown.



È÷½ºÅ׸®

                             - T. S. ¿¤¸®¾îÆ®

 
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ÇÎÅ©ºûÀÇ Èò °ÝÀÚ¹«´Ì¸¦ ¼ö³õÀº ½ÄŹº¸¸¦ ±ÞÈ÷ Æì¸é¼­ ¸»Çß´Ù.

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Â÷¸¦ ¸¶½Ã°í ½ÍÀ¸½Ã´Ù¸é....'Çϰí.

±×³à °¡½¿ÀÇ Áøµ¿À» ¸ØÃâ ¼ö¸¸ ÀÖ´Ù¸é,³ª´Â ¿ÀÈÄÀÇ ´ÜÆíÀ» ¾ó¸¶°£
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ÀÌ ¸ñÀû¿¡ ÁýÁßÇß´Ù



Hysteria

                           - Thomas Sterns Eliot


As she laughed I was aware of

becoming involved in her laughter and being part of it,

until her teeth were only accidental stars

with a talent for squad-drill. I was drawn in by short gasps,

inhaled at each momentary recovery,

lost finally in the dark caverns of her throat,

bruised by the ripple of unseen muscles.

An elderly waiter with trembling hands was hurriedly spreading

a pink and white checked cloth over the rusty green iron table,

saying: "If the lady and gentleman wish to take their tea

in the garden, if the lady and gentleman wish to take

their tea in the garden..." I decided that if the shaking of

her breasts could be stopped, some of the fragments of the afternoon

 might be collected, and I concentrated my attention with

 careful subtlety to this end.



¹Ù¶÷ ºÎ´Â ¹ãÀÇ ±¤½Ã°î

                   - ¿¤¸®¾îÆ®

 
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Rhapsody on a Windy Night

             - Thomas Sterns Eliot


TWELVE o'clock. 

Along the reaches of the street 

Held in a lunar synthesis,  

Whispering lunar incantations 

Dissolve the floors of memory   

And all its clear relations 

Its divisions and precisions, 

Every street lamp that I pass 

Beats like a fatalistic drum, 

And through the spaces of the dark

Midnight shakes the memory  

As a madman shakes a dead geranium. 

 
Half-past one,  

The street-lamp sputtered,  

The street-lamp muttered,

The street-lamp said, "Regard that woman  

Who hesitates toward you in the light of the door 

Which opens on her like a grin. 

You see the border of her dress 

Is torn and stained with sand,

And you see the corner of her eye 

Twists like a crooked pin." 

 
The memory throws up high and dry 

A crowd of twisted things;  

A twisted branch upon the beach 

Eaten smooth, and polished  

As if the world gave up 

The secret of its skeleton, 

Stiff and white.  

A broken spring in a factory yard,

Rust that clings to the form that the strength has left 

Hard and curled and ready to snap.  

 
Half-past two,  

The street-lamp said, 

"Remark the cat which flattens itself in the gutter,

Slips out its tongue  

And devours a morsel of rancid butter." 

So the hand of the child, automatic,  

Slipped out and pocketed a toy that was running along the quay. 

I could see nothing behind that child's eye.

I have seen eyes in the street  

Trying to peer through lighted shutters,  

And a crab one afternoon in a pool, 

An old crab with barnacles on his back, 

Gripped the end of a stick which I held him.

 
Half-past three,  

The lamp sputtered, 

The lamp muttered in the dark.  

The lamp hummed:  

"Regard the moon,

La lune ne garde aucune rancune,  

She winks a feeble eye, 

She smiles into corners.  

She smooths the hair of the grass.  

The moon has lost her memory.

A washed-out smallpox cracks her face,  

Her hand twists a paper rose, 

That smells of dust and eau de Cologne, 

She is alone  

With all the old nocturnal smells 

That cross and cross across her brain." 

The reminiscence comes  

Of sunless dry geraniums  

And dust in crevices, 

Smells of chestnuts in the streets, 

And female smells in shuttered rooms, 

And cigarettes in corridors 

And cocktail smells in bars.  

 
The lamp said,  

"Four o'clock,

Here is the number on the door. 

Memory! 

You have the key, 

The little lamp spreads a ring on the stair.  

Mount.

The bed is open; the tooth-brush hangs on the wall, 

Put your shoes at the door, sleep, prepare for life." 

 
The last twist of the knife.



¹ö¾ðÆ® ³ë¿Àư I. - '4ÁßÁÖ°î'¿¡¼­

                     - ¿¤¸®¾îÆ®


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Burnt Norton I. from 'The Four Quartets'

                   - Thomas Sterns Eliot

I

Time present and time past

Are both perhaps present in time future

And time future contained in time past.

If all time is eternally present

All time is unredeemable.

What might have been is an abstraction

Remaining a perpetual possibility

Only in a world of speculation.

What might have been and what has been

Point to one end, which is always present.

Footfalls echo in the memory

Down the passage which we did not take

Towards the door we never opened

Into the rose-garden. My words echo

Thus, in your mind.

       But to what purpose

Disturbing the dust on a bowl of rose-leaves

I do not know.

       Other echoes

Inhabit the garden. Shall we follow?

Quick, said the bird, find them, find them,

Round the corner. Through the first gate,

Into our first world, shall we follow

The deception of the thrush? Into our first world.

There they were, dignified, invisible,

Moving without pressure, over the dead leaves,

In the autumn heat, through the vibrant air,

And the bird called, in response to

The unheard music hidden in the shrubbery,

And the unseen eyebeam crossed, for the roses

Had the look of flowers that are looked at.

There they were as our guests, accepted and accepting.

So we moved, and they, in a formal pattern,

Along the empty alley, into the box circle,

To look down into the drained pool.

Dry the pool, dry concrete, brown edged,

And the pool was filled with water out of sunlight,

And the lotos rose, quietly, quietly,

The surface glittered out of heart of light,

And they were behind us, reflected in the pool.

Then a cloud passed, and the pool was empty.

Go, said the bird, for the leaves were full of children,

Hidden excitedly, containing laughter.

Go, go, go, said the bird: human kind

Cannot bear very much reality.

Time past and time future

What might have been and what has been

Point to one end, which is always present

 

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