Chocolette7

The Waste LandT.S.EliotI. The Burial of the DeadApril is the cruellest month, breeding Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing Memory and desire, stirring Dull roots with spring rain. Winter kept us warm, coveringEarth in forgetful snow, feeding A little life with dried tubers. Summer surprised us, coming over the Starnbergersee With a shower of rain; we stopped in the colonnade, And went on in sunlight, into the Hofgarten,And drank coffee, and talked for an hour. Bin gar keine Russin, stamm&`&aus Litauen, echt deutsch. And when we were children, staying at the archduke&`&s, My cousin&`&s, he took me out on a sled, And I was frightened. He said, Marie,Marie, hold on tight. And down we went. In the mountains, there you feel free. I read, much of the night, and go south in the winter. What are the roots that clutch, what branches grow Out of this stony rubbish? Son of man,You cannot say, or guess, for you know only A heap of broken images, where the sun beats, And the dead