The Love Song Of J. Alfred Prufrock
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.
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!
It
is
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
that
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.
Thomas Stearns Eliot
T.S. Eliot (born September 26, 1888, St. Louis, Missouri, U.S.—died January 4, 1965, London, England) American-English poet, playwright, literary critic, and editor, a leader of the Modernist movement in poetry in such works as The Waste Land (1922) and Four Quartets (1943). Eliot exercised a strong influence on Anglo-American culture from the 1920s until late in the century. His experiments in diction, style, and versification revitalized English poetry, and in a series of critical essays he shattered old orthodoxies and erected new ones. The publication of Four Quartets led to his recognition as the greatest living English poet and man of letters, and in 1948 he was awarded both the Order of Merit and the Nobel Prize for Literature. Eliot advocates a traditionalism in religion, society, and literature that seems at odds with his pioneer activity as a poet. But although the Eliot of Notes towards the Definition of Culture (1948) is an older man than the poet of The Waste Land, it should not be forgotten that for Eliot tradition is a living organism comprising past and present in constant mutual interaction.