rmon
T.S. Eli
ot
fr o m
Wastela e h
nd
Se
T
ma Menon Ro
The Fire
The river’s tent is
bro ken :t
he last fingers of leaf
Clutch and sink
into the we t ba nk.T he wind
e brown land, unh sses th Cro ear d.T he n d. ymp hs are departe
Sweet Thame s, ru ns oft ly, t ill I end m y song.
Th e
p
riv
, sandwic h ttles o ap ty b er p ers, be m e ars no
Silk h
e nymphs .Th a s t h ed g on i epa yo rn e f su mm rted. r
m
Or other tes ti
t
an
boxes, cigar d r et oa b ee dk d nds erc s, car hief
An d
ir
th
eirs of city gh d n i r ect e eir t i ors lo frie e ; nds, th
De
sa
t do
and wn
pt ‌
ma
f rs o ate
he w
By t
we
so n
, mes
sof tly, f o
r I sp
run
l not eak
eet T
ha
Sw
g,
un soft ly
e s, r
till I
my end
weet
am Th
S
Le
or
rt
e s. nI
ve l e
, ha
pa
ed
s res add
ft no
o ud
ta Bu t my
d col blast a Ih r ba in c k ea
le df r and ch att of th , ea rom ea s r u r e c p o e n s e t e k ar le Th bo
t lio E . T.S