T.S. Eliot

THE winter evening settles down  
With smell of steaks in passageways.  
Six o'clock.  
The burnt-out ends of smoky days.  
And now a gusty shower wraps 5
The grimy scraps  
Of withered leaves about your feet  
And newspapers from vacant lots;  
The showers beat  
On broken blinds and chimney-pots, 10
And at the corner of the street  
A lonely cab-horse steams and stamps.  
And then the lighting of the lamps.  
The morning comes to consciousness  
Of faint stale smells of beer 15
From the sawdust-trampled street  
With all its muddy feet that press  
To early coffee-stands.  
With the other masquerades  
That time resumes, 20
One thinks of all the hands  
That are raising dingy shades  
In a thousand furnished rooms.  
You tossed a blanket from the bed,  
You lay upon your back, and waited; 25
You dozed, and watched the night revealing  
The thousand sordid images  
Of which your soul was constituted;  
They flickered against the ceiling.  
And when all the world came back 30
And the light crept up between the shutters  
And you heard the sparrows in the gutters,  
You had such a vision of the street  
As the street hardly understands;  
Sitting along the bed's edge, where 35
You curled the papers from your hair,  
Or clasped the yellow soles of feet  
In the palms of both soiled hands.  
His soul stretched tight across the skies  
That fade behind a city block, 40
Or trampled by insistent feet  
At four and five and six o'clock;  
And short square fingers stuffing pipes,  
And evening newspapers, and eyes  
Assured of certain certainties, 45
The conscience of a blackened street  
Impatient to assume the world.  
I am moved by fancies that are curled  
Around these images, and cling:  
The notion of some infinitely gentle 50
Infinitely suffering thing.  
Wipe your hand across your mouth, and laugh;  
The worlds revolve like ancient women  
Gathering fuel in vacant lots.