T.S. Eliot: Poems

A Cooking Egg

En l'an trentiesme de mon aage

Que toutes mes hontes j'ay beucs ...

Pipit sate upright in her chair

Some distance from where I was sitting; Views of the Oxford Colleges

Lay on the table, with the knitting.

Daguerreotypes and silhouettes,

Her grandfather and great great aunts, Supported on the mantelpiece

An Invitation to the Dance.

. . . . . . I shall not want Honour in Heaven

For I shall meet Sir Philip Sidney And have talk with Coriolanus

And other heroes of that kidney.

I shall not want Capital in Heaven

For I shall meet Sir Alfred Mond: We two shall lie together, lapt

In a five per cent Exchequer Bond.

I shall not want Society in Heaven,

Lucretia Borgia shall be my Bride; Her anecdotes will be more amusing

Than Pipit's experience could provide.

I shall not want Pipit in Heaven:

Madame Blavatsky will instruct me In the Seven Sacred Trances;

Piccarda de Donati will conduct me ...

. . . . . .

But where is the penny world I bought

To eat with Pipit behind the screen? The red-eyed scavengers are creeping

From Kentish Town and Golder's Green;

Where are the eagles and the trumpets?

Buried beneath some snow-deep Alps. Over buttered scones and crumpets

Weeping, weeping multitudes Droop in a hundred A.B.C.'s