The Poems of T. S. Eliot Volume I
Page 23
London so fair.
We will build London
Bright in dark air,
5
With new bricks and mortar
Beside the Thames bord
Queen of Island and Water
A House of our Lord.
A Church for us all and work for us all
10
And God’s world for us all even unto this last.
Dwellings for all men
Churches for all
Shall the fruit fall, then
By the waste wall?
15
And shall the fruit fall then
The harvest be waste
When the Saviour of all men
Our sowing has graced?
A Church for us all and work for us all
20
And God’s world for us all even unto this last.
<
[Commentary I 1190–92 · Textual History II 598–99]
Shall arms be useless
Fingers unbent
Effort be fruitless
Money misspent?
25
We build the new towers
And raise the new shrine
In this London of ours
Of yours and of mine.
A Church for us all and work for us all
30
And God’s world for us all even unto this last.
Mr. Pugstyles: The Elegant Pig
There are plenty of folk with fantastical notions
Of foreign bred pigs which our village disdains;
With their hairy wild Irish, their little French cochons,
Their bloated Westphalians, and burly blond Danes.
5
I says of all such, pitch ’em into the ocean,
For if you touch pitch, why it only defiles:
There is only one pig what deserves our devotion—
Our Worcestershire heavyweight, Mr. Pugstyles.
Mr. Pugstyles, Mr. Pugstyles,
10
What a wonderful pig is our Mr. Pugstyles.
From the tips of his ears to the ends of his pedals
He’s enough to make all other champions despair.
He takes the blue ribbons, he takes the gold medals
At all the stock shows and our grand county fair.
15
Other counties have schemers, contrivers and plotters;
Their underbred swine only merit our smiles:
For the curve of his chaps and the trim of his trotters
Proclaim the perfections of Mr. Pugstyles.
Mr. Pugstyles, Mr. Pugstyles,
20
Our Worcestershire heavyweight, Mr. Pugstyles.
>
[Commentary I 1192–93 · Textual History II 599–600]
Not at Highbury Barn, or in sweet Maida Vale,
Or at shady Nine Elms can such porkers be seen;
Not at rural Chalk Farm, or remote Notting Dale,
Or where the cows graze along Camberwell Green.
25
No not in the Minories, not in Old Jewry,
Not where the swine along Lothbury glide;
Not in the sweet-smelling stys of Old Drury
Or where the hogs roll down the lanes of Cheapside
Can you find such a pig
30
No not such a pig
As our Worcestershire heavyweight, Mr. Pugstyles.
We had an election down our way last week,
Which seems an unreasonable thing for to do;
And some gentlemen come down from London to speak
35
And they talked and they talked and they talked their selves blue.
They talked their selves hoarse till they hardly could croak.
So we rushed to the Wheatsheaf, we rushed to the Boar,
We rushed to the Angel, we rushed to the Oak,
And we all had a pint, and a pint or two more,
40
Until suddenly somebody started to roar:
‘Mr. Pugstyles, Mr. Pugstyles,
What a wonderful pig is our Mr. Pugstyles’.
Then we laughed and we laughed till we thought we should choke,
And we rushed from the Wheatsheaf, we rushed from the Boar,
45
We rushed from the Angel, we rushed from the Oak,
Some come through the window and some through the door;
We rushed down the street till we reached the town hall,
All cheering until you could hear us for miles,
And together we bust out to bellow and bawl:
50
‘The man for our money is Mr. Pugstyles.
Mr. Pugstyles, we want Pugstyles,
We won’t have any member but Mr. Pugstyles’.
<
[Commentary I 1193 · Textual History II 601–602]
So Mr. Pugstyles he received every vote
And we chaired him, and give him a gallon of milk,
55
And a tall shiny hat, and a long taily coat
And a shilling cigar and a necktie of silk.
So now we live quiet, and leave well alone
And ignore all those Parliament folk and their wiles.
Let ’em mind their own business, we’ll manage our own,
60
While we’re represented by Mr. Pugstyles.
Mr. Pugstyles, Mr. Pugstyles,
Our Worcestershire heavyweight, Mr. Pugstyles.
Bellegarde
Leaping pleasure passes tunefully,
Is medecined mournfully,
Follows futility, greedily grasped;
Pleasure, not only, not of lushness:
5
Pleasure of vanity, imagination
Self-conceitfulness, greedily grasped,
Lust were more real, some thing apprehensible,
Held in the hand, matchless a moment,
Fades fast, perishes in impotence. Light lives
10
Slip from fingers slip
When freely fingered.
What strange apparition presents itself.
All men have their ghosts from the past.
And some are more unwelcome than this
15
Which has a silken smell of jollity.
[Commentary I 1193–94 · Textual History II 602]
The Anniversary
It is not right for likes of me
To speak upon a jubilee
Occasion of solemnity.
I have no skill of noble phrase,
5
Nor am I practised in the ways
Of poetry, like Mr. Masefield.
When he writes about the King,
His classic measures rock and swing
And bump along like anything.
10
So having asked your pardon all,
My present subject I’ll recall.
I’d gladly drink a pt. of beer
In honour of the Dr. here
Or drain a glass of apple juice
15
Or anything you might produce:
There’s nothing that I would refuse
For wishing him the best of health
And peace of mind, and moderate wealth.
So take your pipkins, panikins or firkins
20
While I propose the Toast of DOCTOR PERKINS.
[Commentary I 1195 · Textual History II 602–603]
A Valedictory
Forbidding Mourning: to the Lady of the House.
In springtime, when the year was new,
The morning grass was fresh with dew;
In autumn’s season of regret
The morning flowers are moister yet
5
When now the tardy rose appears,
It sparkles, not with dew, but tears;
Its head is bent with patient grief;
There runs a shudder through the leaf.
The violas and hollyhocks
10<
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Have now put off their coloured frocks.
The zinnia and marigold
Shall go to join beneath the mould
The tulip and the daffodil.
But on the wall there quivers still
15
A tear within the lonely eye
Of Clematis Jackmanii.
The myosotis blue proclaim
With colour shrill, their English name;
And still the robin tries to sing
20
And cheat the winter into spring.
—
O long procession, happy flowers,
That passed through spring and summer hours,
Eager to blossom, and to try
To win approval, and to die,
25
With grateful knowledge, that they grew
To greet the eyes of one who knew
Their ways and needs in every kind,
And when to prune, and when to bind
And when to cut and when to move,
30
With tender skill inspired by love.
[Commentary I 1195–96 · Textual History II 603–604]
—
O happy flowers, that have gone
Quietly, to oblivion,
And with your beauty have repaid
The hand that trimmed, and trained, and sprayed.
35
O happy stems, that not resent
The winter’s long imprisonment;
O happy roots, that live beneath
The calm impertinence of death.
When the revolving year shall bring
40
The sweet deception of the spring,
Dare you put on your gaudy jerkins,
Unsupervised by Mrs. Perkins?
—
We often think that man alone
Remembers in the singing bone.
45
‘Green earth forgets’: but I surmise
That gardens have long memories;
Like houses, have familiar ghosts
Of dear and hospitable hosts.
Laughter and happiness and grief
50
Revive within the budding leaf.
Houses remember: since you came,
Nothing in Campden is the same.
Objects inanimate will yearn
Inaudibly, for your return,
55
And human wishes shall be full
Of aspirations audible,
Which, ratified from hour to hour,
Possess, we hope, magnetic power.
[Commentary I 1197 · Textual History II 604]
Pollicle Dogs and Jellicle Cats
I was lunching one day at The Princess Louise,
When I passed some remark to a man in white spats
Who had ordered a plate of fried gammon and peas,
So we soon fell to talking of thisses and thats—
5
Such as Pollicle Dogs and Jellicle Cats.
I have been, he confided, a jack of all trades,
A true rolling stone that has gathered no moss,
I have seen much of life, in its various shades,
And the fat and the lean, and the profit and loss;
10
I have done everything and I’ve been everywhere,
(I’m at present an agent for small furnished flats)—
But the one thing that’s made life worth while, I declare,
Is Pollicle Dogs and Jellicle Cats.
I have been, he continued, involved with the Turf
15
In the work of Accountant, in quite a small way,
I invented an excellent specific for scurf,
I bought second-hand goods, and I once wrote a play;
I have acted as guide, on a Levantine Tour,
And at one time I travelled (from Luton) in hats:
20
And for all my misfortunes I’ve found but one cure—
And that’s Pollicle Dogs and Jellicle Cats.
Now my sister, for instance, who lives in the hills
That lie on the border of Shropshire and Wales,
In a comfortable house where her husband fulfils
25
His vocation of retail purveyor of ales,
She says, and for me I’ve no reason to doubt
Her opinion, repeated in dozens of chats—
She says there is one thing she can’t do without
And that’s Pollicle Dogs and Jellicle Cats.
>
[Commentary I 1197–98 · Textual History II 604–605]
30
And my brother, for instance, who lives in the plains
That lie on the border of Surrey and Kent,
In a house newly built and with adequate drains,
You would be quite surprised to know how much he spent
On that house—he has actually had to employ
35
Two men snaring rabbits and two catching rats—
He says, there is nothing that he can enjoy
Like Pollicle Dogs and Jellicle Cats.
Now my sister, of whom I have told you before,
Is musically gifted, can sing like a bird,
40
She can learn any tune and can read any score,
She can sing any song that you ever have heard.
I have never known anyone had such an ear,
And she never goes wrong on the sharps or the flats:
She says, there are no voices so pleasant to hear
45
As of Pollicle Dogs and Jellicle Cats.
And my brother, of whom you have just heard me speak,
Is a talented artist, I mean amateur;
He only has time at the end of the week,
But his portraits have made a considerable stir.
50
He can sketch you, in no time, almost anybody,
From Lady Godiva to Ingoldsby Oddie—
He can draw like Italians, or Frenchmen, or Dutch,
But prefers to draw people with whiskers and hats:
And he says, there’s no subject that suits him so much
55
As Pollicle Dogs and Jellicle Cats.
Well, I said very quickly, that’s quite understood,
So now let me order a small glass of port—
It will set your tongue wagging, and do your heart good,
(Any port in a storm, as a final resort):
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Besides, there’s a question I now wish to put,
Though I know what is what, and I know that is that.
What you’ve said is exceedingly curious. But
What’s a Pollicle Dog? and a Jellicle Cat?
[Commentary I 1198 · Textual History II 605]
Well at that he turned round with a look of surprise,
65
As much as to say, Well now what about that?
Do I actually see with my own very eyes
A man who’s not heard of a Jellicle Cat?
And a man who’s not heard of a Pollicle Dog
Can’t know enough even to fall off a log—
70
Well, he said, at the worst there is hope for you yet;
It’s exceedingly lucky for you that we met.
If you do not object to my talking in verse—
Not at all, I replied, I enjoy it of all things,
It’s a good way to put either large things or small things;
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There is nothing like poetry for real monologues—
So with that he began
ABOUT POLLICLE DOGS.
[Commentary I 1198–99 · Textual History II 605–606]
The Country Walk
An Epistle, to John Hayward Esqre., suggested by certain experiences of the Author, in the Countryside of the West of England, and set down after parting from Canon Tissington Tatlow, at the corner of Lime Street and Fenchurch Street.
Of all the bea
sts that God allows
In England’s green and pleasant land
I most of all dislike the Cows.
Their ways I do not understand.
5
It puzzles me why they should stare
At me, who am so innocent;
Their stupid gaze is hard to bear—
It’s positively truculent.
I’m very inconspicuous
10
And scarlet ties I never wear;
I’m not a London Transport Bus
And yet at me they always stare.
You may reply, to fear a Cow
Is Cowardice the rustic scorns:
15
But still your reason must allow
That I am weak, and she has horns.
But most I’m terrified when walking
With country dames in brogues and tweeds,
Who will persist in hearty talking
20
And stopping to discuss the breeds.
To country people Cows are mild
And flee from any stone they throw,
But I’m a timid City Child,
As all the cattle seem to know.
25
But when in lanes alone I stroll,
O then in vain their horns are tossed,
In vain their bloodshot eyes they roll,
Of me they shall not make their boast.
Beyond the wall, or five-barred gate,
30
My sober wishes never stray;
For me their deadly prongs may wait,
But I can always run away!
Or I could take sanctuary
In any oak or apple tree.
T. S. Eliot
6. xii. 36
[Commentary I 1199 · Textual History II 606]
I am asked by my friend, the Man in White Spats
I am asked by my friend, the Man in White Spats—
Who, to my way of thinking, has nothing to do
But attend to the horrible sharps and the flats
Of his Budgerigars and his prize Cockatoo,
5
But who still has one feature we may call redeeming
(I’ve observed him quite closely and know it is true),
And which briefly and shortly is this: to all seeming