The Waste Land
I. THE BURIAL OF THE DEAD
APRIL is the cruellest month, breeding | |
| Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing | |
| Memory and desire, stirring | |
| Dull roots with spring rain. | |
| Winter kept us warm, covering | 5 |
| 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, | 10 |
| 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 archduke’s, | |
| My cousin’s, he took me out on a sled, | |
| And I was frightened. He said, Marie, | 15 |
| 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. |
