a wasteland indeed

The river’s tent is broken: the last fingers of leaf
Clutch and sink into the wet bank. The wind
Crosses the brown land, unheard. The nymphs are departed.
Sweet Thames, run softly, till I end my song.
The river bears no empty bottles, sandwich papers,
Silk handkerchiefs, cardboard boxes, cigarette ends
Or other testimony of summer nights. The nymphs are departed.
And their friends, the loitering heirs of city directors;
Departed, have left no addresses.
By the waters of Leman I sat down and wept,
Sweet Thames, run softly till I end my song,
Sweet Thames, run softly, for I speak not loud or long.
But at my back in a cold blast I hear
The rattle of the bones, and chuckle spread from ear to ear.

These several lines from part III The Fire Sermon scream death. It speaks of what once was life.Nature, civilization, and everything bearing life has gone down the chute. The nymphs are departed. there is no longer any song; not even the wind can be heard over the brown land. No leaf for the wind to rustle, no grass for the nymph to lie it's bosom? Indeed a Wasteland, a Wasteland Indeed.

posted on ms. hillbun's blog