Anguish

There is a great deal of unmapped country within us which would have to be taken into account in an explanation of our gusts and storms.

But I do nothing upon my self, and yet I am mine own Executioner.

I am a lone lorn creetur … and everythink goes contrairy with me.

Tam tint his reason a’ thegither,

The name of the slough was Despond.

Nothing happens, nobody comes, nobody goes, it’s awful!

You must go on, I can’t go on, I’ll go on.

You have made us for yourself, and our heart is restless until it rests in you.

Lately, I’ve become accustomed to the way The ground opens up and envelops me Each time I go out to walk the dog.

Mountainous, woman not breaks and will bend: sways God nearby: anguish comes to an end. Blossomed Sarah, and I blossom. Is that thing alive? I hear a famisht howl.

I was much too far out all my life And not waving but drowning.

Between the idea And the reality Between the motion And the act Falls the Shadow.

Shape without form, shade without color, Paralyzed force, gesture without motion; Those who have crossed With direct eyes, to death’s other Kingdom Remember us—if at all—not as lost Violent souls, but only As the hollow men The stuffed men.

We are the hollow men We are the stuffed men Leaning together Headpiece filled with straw. Alas!

Dayadhvam: I have heard the key Turn in the door once and turn once only We think of the key, each in his prison Thinking of the key, each confirms a prison.

Here is no water but only rock.

He knew the anguish of the marrow The ague of the skeleton; No contact possible to flesh Allayed the fever of the bone.

Should I, after tea and cakes and ices, Have the strength to force the moment to its crisis?

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.

I should have been a pair of ragged claws Scuttling across the floors of silent seas.

And indeed there will be time To wonder, “Do I dare?” and, “Do I dare?”

Let us go then, you and I, When the evening is spread out against the sky Like a patient etherized upon a table.

It is the celestial ennui of apartments That sends us back to the first idea.

In the desert I saw a creature, naked, bestial, Who, squatting upon the ground, Held his heart in his hands, And ate of it. I said, “Is it good, friend?” “It is bitter—bitter,” he answered; “But I like it “Because it is bitter, “And because it is my heart.” 1