If ah bit thought that mah response wur made
To yin mibbie returning tae th' world,
This tongue o' flame wid cease tae flicker.
But sin, up fae thae depths, nae yin haes yet
Returned alive, if whit ah hear is true,
I answer wi'oot fear o' bein' shamed.
LET us gang then, ye 'n' I,
When th' forenicht is spread oot against th' sky
Like a patient etherized upon a table;
Let us gang, thro' certain half-deserted streets,
The mutterin' retreats
O' restless nights in wan-night cheap hotels
An' sawdust restaurants wi' oyster-shells:
Streets that follow lik' a tedious argument
Of insidious intent
Tae leid ye tae an overwhelmin' quaistion. . . .
Oh, dae nae ask, "Whit is it?"
Let us gang an' mak' oor visit.
In th' room th' wimmin come 'n' go
Talking o' Michelangelo.
The yellow rowk that rubs tis back upon th' windae-panes,
The yellow smoke that rubs tis muzzle oan th' windae-panes,
Licked tis tongue intae th' corners o' th' evenin',
Lingered upon th' pools that staun in drains,
Let faw upon tis back th' soot that faws fae chimneys,
Slipped by th' terrace, made a sudden leap,
And seein' that it wis a saft Ochtober nicht,
Curled wance aboot th' hoose, an' fell asleep.
An' indeed thare wull be time
For th' yellow smoke that slides alang th' street,
Rubbin' tis back upon th' windae-panes;
Thare wull be time, thare wull be time
To prepare a face tae meet th' faces that ye meet;
Thare wull be time tae murder 'n' create,
And time fur a' th' wirks 'n' days o' hauns
That hurl 'n' drap a quaistion oan yer plate;
Time fur ye 'n' time fur me,
And time yit fur a hundred indecisions,
And fur a hundred visions an' revisions,
Afore th' takin' o' a toast 'n' tea.
In th' room th' wimmin come 'n' go
Talking o' Michelangelo.
And indeed thare wull be time
Tae wonder, "Do ah dare?" an', "Do ah dare?"
Time tae caw back 'n' descend th' stair,
Wi' a bald bit in th' middle o' ma hair—
(They wull say: "How his locks is grawin thin!")
My mornin' jaiket, collar mountin' firmly tae th' chin,
My necktie rich 'n' modest, bit asserted wi' a simple pin—
(They wull say: "But how his arms 'n' legs ur thin!")
Do ah dare
Disturb the universe?
In a minute thare is time
For decisions an' revisions whilk a minute wull reverse.
Fur ah hae kent thaim a' awready, kent thaim aw:
Have kent th' evenin's, mornin's, efternoons,
I hae maisured oot mah lee wi' coffee spoons;
I ken th' voices dyin' wi' a dyin' faw
Beneath th' strathspeys fae a farther room.
So how shuid ah presume?
And ah hae kent th' een awready, kent thaim aw—
The een that fix ye in a formulated phrase,
And whin a'm formulated, sprawlin' oan a pin,
When a'm pinned 'n' wriggling oan th' wall,
Then how shuid ah begin
To spit oot a' th' butt-ends o' mah days 'n' ways?
And how shuid ah presume?
An' ah hae kent th' erms awready, kent thaim all—
Erms that ur braceleted 'n' white 'n' bare
(But in th' lamplight, downed wi' light broon hair!)
Is it perfume fae a dress
That mak's me sae digress?
Arms that lie alang a buird, or wrap aboot a shawl.
And shuid ah then presume?
And how shuid ah begin?
* * * *
Shall ah say, ah hae gaen at gloaming thro' narrow streets
And gawked th' smoke that rises fae th' pipes
Of lonely men in shirt-sleeves, leanin' oot o' windaes? . . .
I shuid hae bin a pair o' ragged claws
Scuttlin' across th' floors o' silent seas.
* * * *
An' th' efternoon, th' forenicht, sleeps sae peacefully!
Smoothed by lang fingers,
Asleep . . . Tired . . . Or it malingers,
Stretched oan th' flair, 'ere beside ye 'n' me.
Should ah, efter cuppa cakes 'n' ices,
Have th' braun tae force th' moment tae tis crisis?
But though ah hae wept 'n' fasted, wept 'n' prayed,
Though ah hae seen mah heid (a wee bit bald) brought in upon a platter,
I am nae prophet—and here's nae great matter;
I hae seen th' moment o' mah greatness flicker,
And ah hae seen th' eternal footman haud mah coat, 'n' snicker,
And in short, ah wis afeart.
An' wid it hae bin worth it, efter all,
After th' cups, th' marmalade, th' tea,
Among th' porcelain, among some chat o' ye 'n' me,
Would it hae bin worth while,
To hae bitten aff th' maiter wi' a smile,
To hae squeezed th' universe intae a ball
To roll it tae some overwhelming question,
To say: "I am Lazarus, come fae th' dead,
Come back tae tell ye a', ah shall tell ye all"—
If yin, settling a pillow by her head,
Should say: "That insae whit ah meant at all;
That insae it, at all."
An' wid it hae bin worth it, efter all,
Would it hae bin worth while,
After th' sunsets 'n' th' dooryards 'n' th' sprinkled streets,
After th' novels, efter th' teacups, efter th' skirts that trail alang th' flair—
An' this, an' sae mucch mair?—
It is impossible tae say juist whit ah mean!
But as if a magic lantern threw th' nerves in patterns oan a screen:
Would it hae bin worth while
If yin, settling a pillow or throwing aff a shawl,
And turning toward th' windae, shuid say:
"That insae it at all,
That insae whit ah meant, at all."
* * * *
Naw! Amurnay Prince Hamlet, nor wis meant tae be;
Am an attendant laird, yin that wull dae
To swell a progress, stairt a scene or twa,
Advise th' prince; na doubt, an easy tool,
Deferential, glad tae be o' use,
Politic, canny, 'n' meticulous;
Full o' heich sentence, but a wee bit obtuse;
At times, indeed, a'maist ridiculous—
A'maist, at times, the fool.
I graw auld . . . I graw auld . . .
I shall wear th' bottoms o' mah breeks a' rolled.
Shall ah pairt mah locks behind? dae ah dare tae sloch a peach?
I shall wear white flannel breeks, 'n' donder on th' beach.
I hae heard th' mermaids singing, ilk tae each.
I dae nae think that thay wull sing tae me.
I hae seen thaim riding seaward oan th' waves
Combing th' white locks o' th' waves blown back
When th' win` blows th' water white an' black.
We hae lingered in th' chambers o' th' sea
By sea-girls wreathed wi' seaweed rid 'n' broon
Till human voices wake us, an' we droon.
Copyright
T.S. Eliot’s “The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock” is available as HTML, for Kindle, Plain Text and other formats, archived as a public domain text in the collection Prufrock and Other Observations on the Project Gutenberg website:
http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/1459
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