Whispers of Immortality

T. S. Eliot

 
Webster was much possessed by death
And saw the skull beneath the skin;
And breastless creatures under ground
Leaned backward with a lipless grin.
Daffodil bulbs instead of balls
Stared from the sockets of the eyes!
He knew that thought clings round dead limbs
Tightening its lusts and luxuries.
Donne, I suppose, was such another
Who found no substitute for sense;
To seize and clutch and penetrate,
Expert beyond experience,
He knew the anguish of the marrow
The ague of the skeleton;
No contact possible to flesh
Allayed the fever of the bone.
.    .    .    .    .    .    .    .
Grishkin is nice: her Russian eye
Is underlined for emphasis;
Uncorseted, her friendly bust
Gives promise of pneumatic bliss.
The couched Brazilian jaguar
Compels the scampering marmoset
With subtle effluence of cat;
Grishkin has a maisonette;
The sleek Brazilian jaguar
Does not in its arboreal gloom
Distil so rank a feline smell
As Grishkin in a drawing-room.
And even the Abstract Entities
Circumambulate her charm;
But our lot crawls between dry ribs
To keep our metaphysics warm.
 

Poems by This Author

La Figlia Che Piange by T. S. Eliot
Stand on the highest pavement of the stair
Aunt Helen by T.S. Eliot
Miss Helen Slingsby was my maiden aunt
Conversation Galante by T.S. Eliot
I observe:
Cousin Nancy by T.S. Eliot
Miss Nancy Ellicott
Gerontion by T.S. Eliot
Here I am, an old man in a dry month
Hysteria by T. S. Eliot
As she laughed I was aware of becoming involved in her laughter and being part of it
Morning at the Window by T. S. Eliot
They are rattling breakfast plates in basement kitchens
Portrait of a Lady by T. S. Eliot
Among the smoke and fog of a December afternoon
Preludes by T.S. Eliot
The winter evening settles down
Rhapsody on a Windy Night by T. S. Eliot
Twelve o'clock
Sweeney among the Nightingales by T.S. Eliot
Apeneck Sweeney spreads his knees
The Boston Evening Transcript by T.S. Eliot
The readers of the Boston Evening Transcript
The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock by T. S. Eliot
Let us go then, you and I
The Waste Land by T. S. Eliot
April is the cruellest month


Further Reading

Related Authors
John Donne