Eliot 1915 Prufrock

7/28/2019 Eliot 1915 Prufrock

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The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock

Author(s): T. S. EliotReviewed work(s):Source: Poetry, Vol. 6, No. 3 (Jun., 1915), pp. 130-135Published by: Poetry FoundationStable URL: http://www.jstor.org/stable/20570428 .

Accessed: 27/02/2013 01:41

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POETRY: A AMIagazine of VerseTHE LOVE SONG OF J.ALFRED PRUFROCK

S' io credessi chemia risposta fosseA persona che mai tornasseal mondo,Questa flAmma taria sensa piu scosse.Ma perciocche giammai di questo fondoNon torno vivo alcum, 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 skyLike a patient therized pon a table;Let us go, throughertain alf-desertedtreets,The muttering etreatsOf restlessights n ne-nightheaphotelsAnd sawdust estaurantsith oyster-shells:Streets that follow like a tedious argumentOf insidiousntentTo lead you to an overwhelming question .Oh, do not ask, "What is it?"Let us go and make our visit.In the room thewomen come and goTalking ofMichelangelo.

The yellow fog that rubs itsback upon thewindow panes,The yellow moke hat ubs tsmuzzle on the indow panes,Licked its ongue nto he ornersf the vening,Lingeredupon thepools that tand ndrains,[130]

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The Love Song ofJ.AlfredPrufrockLet fallupon tsbackthe pot hatfallsfrom himneys,Slippedby the terrace, ade a sudden eap,And seeing hat twas a soft ctobernight,Curledonce aboutthehouse, nd fell sleep.

And indeed here ill be timeFor theyellow moke hat lides long the treet,Rubbing tsbackupon thewindow panes;Therewill be time, here ill be timeTo prepare a face tomeet the faces that youmeet;There will be time tomurder and create,And time for all theworks and days of handsThat lift and drop a question on your plate:Time foryou and time forme,And time et for hundred ndecisions,And for hundred isions nd revisions,Before the taking of a toast and tea.In the room thewomen come and goTalking ofMichelangelo.And indeed here ill be time

To wonder, "Do I dare?" and, "Do I dare?"Time to turnback and descend the stair,With a bald spot in themiddle ofmy hair(Theywill say: "How his hair isgrowing hin!")My morning coat, my collar mounting firmly to the chin,

[131]



4/7

POETRY: a Magazine of VerseMy necktie ich ndmodest, utassertedy a simple in(They will say: "But how his arms and legs are thin!")

Do I dareDisturb theuniverse?In aminute there is timeFor decisionsnd revisionshichaminutewill reverse.

For I have knownthem lready, nownthem ll:Have known he venings,ornings,fternoons,I havemeasured utmy life ithcoffeepoons;I knowthevoicesdying ith a dyingfallBeneaththemusic from fartheroom.So howshould presume?And I have known the eyes already, known them all

The eyes that fixyou in a formulated phrase.And when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin,When I am pinned and wriggling on thewall,Then how should I beginTo spit out all the butt-ends ofmy days and ways?And how should presume?

And I have known the arms already, known themallArms that are braceleted and white and bare(But inthe amplight,ownedwith light rownhair!)Is it perfume from a dressThat makes me so digress?

[132]



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The Love Song ofJ.AlfredPrufrockArms that lie along a table, or wrap about a shawl.And should then resume?And how should begin?

Shall I say, I have gone at dusk through narrow streets,Andwatchedthe moke hatrisesfrom hepipesOf lonely en in hirtsleeves,eaning utofwindows? .I should have been a pair of ragged clawsScuttlingcross hefloorsfsilent eas.And the fternoon,he vening,sleeps o peacefully!Smoothedy ongfingers,

Asleep . . . tired . . . or itmalingers,Stretchedn thefloor,erebesideyouandme.Should I, after tea and cakes and ices,Have the strength to force themoment to its crisis?But though I have wept and fasted,wept and prayed,Though I haveseenmy head (grown lightly ald) brought

in upon a platter,I am no prophet-and here's no greatmatter;I have seen themoment fmy greatness licker,And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, andsnicker,

And in short, I was afraid.And would ithavebeenworth it, fter ll,After the ups,themarmalade, hetea,[133]



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POETRY: A Magazine of VerseAmong the orcelain, mong ometalk f you andme,Would ithave beenworthwhileTo have bitten off thematter with a smile,To have squeezed the universe into a ballTo roll it toward ome verwhelminguestion,To say: "I am Lazarus, come from the dead,Come back to tell you all, I shall tell you all"Ifone,settling pillow byherhead,

Should say: "That is not what I meant at all;That isnot it,at all."

And would it have been worth it, after all,Would ithavebeenworthwhile,Afterthe unsets nd the ooryardsnd the prinkledtreets,After thenovels, fter he teacups, fterthe kirts hattrailalongthefloorAnd this, and somuch 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 ithave been worth whileIfone, ettling pillowor throwingff shawl,And turning oward hewindow, should ay: "That is not

it at all,That isnotwhat Imeant, at all."

No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be;Am an attendant lord, one thatwill do[134]



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The Love Song ofJ.AlfredPrufrockTo swell a progress, start a scene or two,Advise the rince:withal,an easy tool,Deferential, lad tobe ofuse,Politic, autious, ndmeticulous;Full of high entence,ut a bitobtuse;At times, ndeed, lmost idiculousAlmost, t times, he ool.I grow old . . . I grow oldI shallwear the ottoms fmy trowsers olled.

Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach?I shallwearwhite flannel rowsers,ndwalk upon the each.I haveheardthemermaids inging,achtoeach.I do not think that theywill sing tome.I have seen them riding seaward on thewaves,Combing thewhite hair of thewaves blown backWhen thewind blowsthewaterwhite and black.

We have lingered in the chambers of the seaBy seagirls reathedwith seaweedred nd brown,Till humanvoiceswake us,andwe drown.T. S. Eliot

[135]

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Eliot 1915 Prufrock

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