T.S. Eliot's "The Wasteland"

[sweetnpetite]

Let's discuss this. I've been trying to make heads or tales of this poem for a while now.

Go slowly though- just a bit at a time, so I can keep up- no grand explanations of the big theme or anything till I can make it though each section with a bit of understanding.

 

[gauchecritic]

eeh I'm glad started this thread Sweet. I'd love to find out myself (rather than what my English teacher told me) Drubnk at the moment, will call in later.

 

[BlackShanglan]

The thing I love about "The Wasteland" is watching Eliot try to force himself yo yield to the symbolist nature of the text. It's got that wild, bursting, chaotic depth of connection and meaning that symbolist/modernist texts have - but he can't quite let go and just let the reader construct the meaning. So he adds in footnotes and introductory quotations and section titles to try to control the booming, gyring meanings that spiral up out of it.

I love it.

Shanglan

 

[entitled]

i never actually read it myself (er... yet - it's on the LIST), but the series by Stephen King inspired by this poes is good. What i have of it, anyway.

 

[dr_mabeuse]

I always thought that the Wasteland was one of the easier modern poems to understand. Just what's the problem? What don't you get?

 

[BlackShanglan]

I think one of the simplest and best ways to crack into the poem, btw, is to look for recurring images and start making some lists. Once you know what's there - and what crops up a LOT, like water - it's easier to think about what it might symbolize or embody.

Shanglan

 

[sweetnpetite]

The Waste Land
1922
T.S. Eliot


I. The Burial of the Dead
April is the cruelest month, breeding
Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing
Memory and desire, stirring
Dull roots with spring rain.
Winter kept us warm, covering
Earth 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. 12
And when we were children, staying at the arch-duke'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. 18
What are the roots that clutch, what branches grow
Out of this stony rubbish?Son of man, 20
You cannot say, or guess, for you know only
A heap of broken images, where the sun beats,
And the dead tree gives no shelter, the cricket no relief, 23
And the dry stone no sound of water. Only
There is shadow under this red rock,
(Come in under the shadow of this red rock),
And I will show you something different from either
Your shadow at morning striding behind you
Or your shadow at evening rising to meet you;
I will show you fear in a handful of dust. 30
Frisch weht der Wind 31
Der Heimat zu
Mein Irisch Kind
Wo weilest du?
'You gave me hyacinths first a year ago;
'They called me the hyacinth girl.'
-Yet when we came back, late, from the hyacinth garden,
Your arms full, and your hair wet, I could not
Speak, and my eyes failed, I was neither
Living nor dead, and I knew nothing,
Looking into the heart of light, the silence.
Oed' und leer das Meer. 42
Madame Sosostris, famous clairvoyante,43
Had a bad cold, nevertheless
Is known to be the wisest woman in Europe,
With a wicked pack of cards. Here, said she, 46
Is your card, the drowned Phoenician Sailor,
(Those are pearls that were his eyes. Look!)
Here is Belladonna, The Lady of the Rocks, The lady of situations.
Here is the man with three staves, and here the Wheel,
And here is the one-eyed merchant, and this card,
Which is blank, is something he carries on his back,
Which I am forbidden to see. I do not find
The Hanged Man. Fear death by water. 55
I see crowds of people, walking round in a ring.
Thank you. If you see dear Mrs. Equitone,
Tell her I bring the horoscope myself:
One must be so careful these days.
Unreal City, 60
Under the brown fog of a winter dawn,
A crowd flowed over London Bridge, so many,
I had not thought death had undone so many. 63
Sighs, short and infrequent, were exhaled, 64
And each man fixed his eyes before his feet.
Flowed up the hill and down King William Street,
To where Saint Mary Woolnoth kept the hours
With a dead sound on the final stroke of nine. 68
There I saw one I knew, and stopped him, crying: 'Stetson! 69
'You who were with me in the ships at Mylae!
'That corpse you planted last year in your garden,
'Has it begun to sprout? Will it bloom this year?
'Or has the sudden frost disturbed its bed?
'O keep the Dog far hence, that's friend to men, 74
'Or with his nails he'll dig it up again!
'You! Hypocrite lecteur! - mon semblable, - mon frère!' 76
Title Page

II. A Game of Chess
The Chair she sat in, like a burnished throne, 77
Glowed on the marble, where the glass
Held up by standards wrought with fruited vines
From which a golden Cupidon peeped out
(Another hid his eyes behind his wing)
Doubled the flames of sevenbranched candelabra
Reflecting light upon the table as
The glitter of her jewels rose to meet it,
From satin cases poured in rich profusion.
In vials of ivory and coloured glass
Unstoppered, lurked her strange synthetic perfumes,
Unguent, powdered, or liquid - troubled, confused
And drowned the sense in odours; stirred by the air
That freshened from the window, these ascended
In fattening the prolonged candle-flames,
Flung their smoke into the laquearia, 92
Stirring the pattern on the coffered ceiling.
Huge sea-wood fed with copper
Burned green and orange, framed by the coloured stone,
In which sad light a carvèd dolphin swam.
Above the antique mantel was displayed
As though a window gave upon the sylvan scene 98
The change of Philomel, by the barbarous king 99
So rudely forced; yet there the nightingale 100
Filled all the desert with inviolable voice
And still she cried, and still the world pursues,
'Jug Jug' to dirty ears.
And other withered stumps of time
Were told upon the walls; staring forms
Leaned out, leaning, hushing the room enclosed.
Footsteps shuffled on the stair.
Under the firelight, under the brush, her hair
Spread out in fiery points
Glowed into words, then would be savagely still.
'My nerves are bad to-night. Yes, bad. Stay with me.
'Speak to me. Why do you never speak. Speak.
'What are you thinking of? What thinking? What?
'I never know what you are thinking. Think.'
I think we are in rats' alley 115
Where the dead men lost their bones.
'What it that noise?'
The wind under the door. 118
'What is that noise now? What is the wind doing?'
Nothing again nothing.
'Do
'You know nothing? Do you see nothing? Do you remember
'Nothing?'
I remember
Those are pearls that were his eyes.
'Are you alive, or not? Is there nothing in your head?' 126
But
O O O O that Shakespeherian Rag - 128
It's so elegant
So intelligent
'What shall I do now? What shall I do?'
'I shall rush out as I am, and walk the street
'With my hair down, so. What shall we do tomorrow?
'What shall we ever do?'
The hot water at ten.
And if it rains, a closed car at four.
And we shall play a game of chess, 138
Pressing lidless eyes and waiting for a knock upon the door.
When Lil's husband got demobbed, I said -
I didn't mince my words, I said to her myself,
HURRY UP PLEASE IT'S TIME
Now Albert's coming back, make yourself a bit smart.
He'll want to know what you done with that money he gave you
To get herself some teeth. He did, I was there.
You have them all out, Lil, and get a nice set,
He said, I swear, I can't bear to look at you.
And no more can't I, I said, and think of poor Albert,
He's been in the army for four years, he wants a good time,
And if you don't give it him, there's others will, I said.
Oh is there, she said. Something o' that, I said.
Then I'll know who to thank, she said, and give me a straight look.
HURRY UP PLEASE IT'S TIME
If you don't like it you can get on with it, I said.
Others can pick and choose if you can't.
But if Albert makes off, it won't be for a lack of telling.
You ought to be ashamed, I said, to look so antique.
(And her only thirty-one.)
I can't help it, she said, pulling a long face,
It's them pills I took, to bring it off, she said.
(She's had five already, and nearly died of young George.)
The chemist said it would be all right, but I've never been the same.
You are a proper fool, I said.
Well, if Albert won't leave you alone, there it is, I said,
What you get married for if you don't want children?
HURRY UP PLEASE IT'S TIME
Well, that Sunday Albert was home, they had a hot gammon,
And they asked me in to dinner, to get the beauty of it hot -
HURRY UP PLEASE IT'S TIME
HURRY UP PLEASE IT'S TIME
Goonight Bill. Goonight Lou. Goonight May. Goonight.
Ta ta. Goonight. Goonight.
Good night, ladies, good night, sweet ladies, good night, good night. 172
Title Page
III. The Fire Sermon
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. 176
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.
A rat crept softly through the vegetation
Dragging its slimy belly on the bank
While I was fishing in the dull canal
On a winter evening round behind the gashouse
Musing upon the king my brother's wreck
And on the king my father's death before him. 192
White bodies naked on the low damp ground
And bones cast in a little low dry garret,
Rattled by the rat's foot only, year to year.
But at my back from time to time I hear 196
The sound of horns and motors, which shall bring 197
Sweeney to Mrs. Porter in the spring.
O the moon shone bright on Mrs. Porter 199
And on her daughter
They wash their feet in soda water
Et O ces voix d'enfants, chantant dans la coupole! 202
Twit twit twit
Jug jug jug jug jug jug
So rudely forc'd.
Tereu
Unreal City
Under the brown fog of a winter noon
Mr. Eugenides, the Smyrna merchant
Unshaven, with a pocket full of currants
C.i.f. London: documents at sight, 210
Asked me in demotic French
To luncheon at the Cannon Street Hotel
Followed by a weekend at the Metropole.
At the violet hour, when the eyes and back
Turn upward from the desk, when the human engine waits
Like a taxi throbbing waiting,
I Tiresias, though blind, throbbing between two lives, 218
Old man with wrinkled female breasts, can see
At the violet hour, the evening hour that strives
Homeward, and brings the sailor home from sea, 221
The typist home at teatime, clears her breakfast, lights
Her stove, and lays out food in tins.
Out of the window perilously spread
Her drying combinations touched by the sun's last rays,
On the divan are piled (at night her bed)
Stockings, slippers, camisoles, and stays.
I Tiresias, old man with wrinkled dugs
Perceived the scene, and foretold the rest -
I too awaited the expected guest.
He, the young man carbuncular, arrives,
A small house agent's clerk, with one bold stare,
One of the low on whom assurance sits
As a silk hat on a Bradford millionaire.
The time is now propitious, as he guesses,
The meal is ended, she is bored and tired,
Endeavours to engage her in caresses
Which are still unreproved, if undesired.
Flushed and decided, he assaults at once;
Exploring hands encounter no defence;
His vanity requires no response,
And makes a welcome of indifference.
(And I Tiresias have foresuffered all
Enacted on this same divan or bed;
I who have sat by Thebes below the wall
And walked among the lowest of the dead.)
Bestows one final patronising kiss,
And gropes his way, finding the stairs unlit...
She turns and looks a moment in the glass,
Hardly aware of her departed lover;
Her brain allows one half-formed thought to pass:
'Well now that's done: and I'm glad it's over.'
When lovely woman stoops to folly and 253
Paces about her room again, alone,
She smoothes her hair with automatic hand,
And puts a record on the gramophone.
'This music crept by me upon the waters' 257
And along the Strand, up Queen Victoria Street.
O City city, I can sometimes hear
Beside a public bar in Lower Thames Street,
The pleasant whining of a mandoline
And a clatter and a chatter from within
Where fishmen lounge at noon: where the walls
Of Magnus Martyr hold 264
Inexplicable splendour of Ionian white and gold.
The river sweats 266
Oil and tar
The barges drift
With the turning tide
Red sails
Wide
To leeward, swing on the heavy spar.
The barges wash
Drifting logs
Down Greenwich reach
Past the Isle of Dogs.
Weialala leia
Wallala leialala
Elizabeth and Leicester 279
Beating oars
The stern was formed
A gilded shell
Red and gold
The brisk swell
Rippled both shores
Southwest wind
Carried down stream
The peal of bells
White towers
Weialala leia
Wallala leialala
'Trams and dusty trees.
Highbury bore me. Richmond and Kew 293
Undid me. By Richmond I raised my knees
Supine on the floor of a narrow canoe.'
'My feet are at Moorgate and my heart
Under my feet. After the event
He wept. He promised "a new start."
I made no comment. What should I resent?'
'On Margate Sands. 301
I can connect
Nothing with nothing.
The broken fingernails of dirty hands.
My people humble people who expect
Nothing.'
la la
To Carthage then I came 307
Burning burning burning burning 308
O Lord Thou pluckest me out 309
O Lord Thou pluckest
burning
Title Page
IV. Death by Water
Phlebas the Phoenician, a fortnight dead,
Forgot the cry of gulls, and the deep sea swell
And the profit and loss.
A current under sea
Picked his bones in whispers. As he rose and fell
He passes the stages of his age and youth
Entering the whirlpool.
Gentile or Jew
O you who turn the wheel and look windward,
Consider Phlebas, who was once handsome and tall as you.
Title Page
V. What the Thunder Said
After the torchlight red on sweaty faces
After the frosty silence in the gardens
After the agony in stony places
The shouting and the crying
Prison and palace and reverberation
Of thunder of spring over distant mountains
He who was living is now dead
We who were living are now dying
With a little patience
Here is no water but only rock
Rock and no water and the sandy road
The road winding above among the mountains
Which are mountains of rock without water
If there were water we should stop and drink
Amongst the rock one cannot stop or think
Sweat is dry and feet are in the sand
If there were only water amongst the rock
Dead mountain mouth of carious teeth that cannot spit
Here one can neither stand not lie nor sit
There is not even silence in the mountains
But dry sterile thunder without rain
There is not even solitude in the mountains
But red sullen faces sneer and snarl
From doors of mudcracked houses
If there were water
And no rock
If there were rock
And also water
And water
A spring
A pool among the rock
If there were the sound of water only
Not the cicada
And dry grass singing
But sound of water over a rock
Where the hermit-thrush sings in the pine trees
Drip drop drip drop drop drop drop 357
But there is no water
Who is the third who walks always beside you?
When I count, there are only you and I together 360
But when I look ahead up the white road
There is always another one walking beside you
Gliding wrapt in a brown mantle, hooded
I do not know whether a man or a woman
- But who is that on the other side of you?
What is that sound high in the air 366
Murmur of maternal lamentation
Who are those hooded hordes swarming
Over endless plains, stumbling in cracked earth
Ringed by the flat horizon only
What is the city over the mountains
Cracks and reforms and bursts in the violet air
Falling towers
Jerusalem Athens Alexandria
Vienna London
Unreal
A woman drew her long black hair out tight
And fiddled whisper music on those strings
And bats with baby faces in the violet light
Whistled, and beat their wings
And crawled head downward down a blackened wall
And upside down in air were towers
Tolling reminiscent bells, that kept the hours
And voices singing out of empty cisterns and exhausted wells.
In this decayed hole among the mountains
In the faint moonlight, the grass is singing
Over the tumbled graves, about the chapel
There is the empty chapel, only the wind's home.
It has no windows, and the door swings,
Dry bones can harm no one.
Only a cock stood on the rooftree
Co co rico co co rico 392
In a flash of lightning. Then a damp gust
Bringing rain
Ganga was sunken, and the limp leaves
Waited for rain, while the black clouds
Gathered far distant, over Himavant.
The jungle crouched, humped in silence.
Then spoke the thunder
DA
Datta: what have we given? 401
My friend, blood shaking my heart
The awful daring of a moment's surrender
Which an age of prudence can never retract
By this, and this only, we have existed
Which is not to be found in our obituaries
Or in memories draped by the beneficent spider 407
Or under seals broken by the lean solicitor
In our empty rooms
DA
Dayadhvam: I have heard the key
Turn in the door once and turn once only 411
We think of the key, each in his prison
thinking of the key, each confirms a prison
Only at nightfall, aethereal rumours
Revive for a moment a broken Coriolanus
DA
Damyata: The boat responded
Gaily, to the hand expert with sail and oar
The sea was calm, your heart would have responded
Gaily, when invited, beating obedient
To controlling hands
I sat upon the shore
Fishing, with the arid plain behind me 424
Shall I at least set my lands in order?
London Bridge is falling down falling down falling down
Poi s'ascose nel foco che gli affina 427
Quando fiam uti chelidon - O swallow swallow 428
Le Prince d'Aquitaine à la tour abolie 429
These fragments I have shored against my ruins
Why then Ile fit you. Hieronymo's mad againe. 431
Datta. Dayadhvam. Damyata. 401
Shantih shantih shantih 433

 

[sweetnpetite]

I always thought that the Wasteland was one of the easier modern poems to understand. Just what's the problem? What don't you get?

I don't know.

Let's just make whatever comments you care to on part 1-Burrial of the Dead.

Maybe I understand it, but I just don't realize that I do. Or soemthing

 

[sweetnpetite]

What I can figure out from part 1 is that it's a woman (Marie) who's lover or brother or somebody has died and she's trying to escape from the memory of it, because even the happy memories bring her pain.

IS there more?

Ok- I think it's her lover. Now what does this mean?:

There I saw one I knew, and stopped him, crying: 'Stetson!
'You who were with me in the ships at Mylae!
'That corpse you planted last year in your garden,
'Has it begun to sprout? Will it bloom this year?
'Or has the sudden frost disturbed its bed?
'O keep the Dog far hence, that's friend to men,
'Or with his nails he'll dig it up again!
'You! Hypocrite lecteur! - mon semblable, - mon frère!'

 

[dr_mabeuse]

Well here's the thing. To understand the poem you have to understand what World War I did to Europe and western civilization, because that’s what the poem is about. WW I totally destroyed a civilization, and what was left after the smoke cleared was what Eliot referred to as "the wasteland".

WW I wasn’t just a terrible war. It was the end of old Europe with its ideas of civilization, prosperity and progress. Before WW I you had the Victorian era in England with a very structured and orderly society, and similar situations in France and Germany. Europe was wealthy and pretty much content and even smug, and, with Science by their side, people really thought they had things licked. Progress and wealth and general happiness were thought to be inevitable.

WW I was a stupid and avoidable war, but more than that, it was a carnage on a scale people had never even imagined. Even worse, the whole thing was senseless and surreal. It accomplished nothing but to destroy the nations that fought in it. Hundreds of thousands of men died to gain a few yards of ground for no apparent purpose, only to lose it the next week. An entire generation of English, German, and French males was lost. The war dragged on for four bloody years, and when it ended all hope and optimism were utterly destroyed in Europe. The days of the monarchy and the structured, well-ordered society were over. God was dead, and there was nothing left to believe in or, for many, to even live for. Europe was very much like a man in shock.

So this is the setting for Eliot’s poem. The Wasteland itself is a metaphor not just for the battlegrounds of that war, but for the emptiness and deadness that followed. The imagery is full of scenes not of violence, but of sterility, emptiness, and despair. There are many references to people as living dead, and the poet treats ghosts and the living in much the same way, as if they were equal, all of them featureless shades.

I just went back to refresh and read the first couple of verses, and you can see how Eliot starts out with images of the Old Europe of sunny love affairs and visits to one’s cousin the Count of Such and such (the old nobility were one of the casualties of the war, as was that sense of gracious living epitomized by life on the grand estates)

From that image we visit the barren horrors of the blasted landscape where nothing grows, where the war was fought. In the last part of that verse (one of my favorites) we’re at a tarot card reading. It seems as though the lover from the start of the verse is now looking for news of her lost love, or trying to see what the future holds for her. Everything is in chaos, she’d might as well consult the weird symbols of the Tarot (“The drowned Phoenecian sailor…the hanged man) which are filled with vague threat and menace.

This feeling of vague and nameless dread is one of the dominant feelings in the poem. I don't think they had a name for that feeling when the poem was written (although Freud did, of course), but today we call it "anxiety". WW I gave birth to the age of anxiety.

In the next verse we find outselves in London, but we can't tell whether the crowds of people are living or dead. Nor does it seem to matter. In a world robbed of meaning and purpose, what difference does it make?

I think it's fair to say that WW I shaped our modern age even more than WW II did. In fact, in many ways the second world war can be seen as a continuation of the first. Comparing life in Europe as it was before the carnage to what it was after is truly shocking. It was the most traumatic event of the twentieth century, and Eliot's poem captures that better than any other.

 

[RavenousRae]

One of the things to realize while reading T.S. Eliot is how extremely well read he was. He makes so many literary allusions in his works that it's hard to keep up with, without having to refer to footnotes every line. So hope you are reading a version that is annotated. I wish I still had my notes from college about this poem so I could help further - it really is a very intricate, almost convoluted piece - I know it was very hard for me to grasp as an undergrad. And being that I haven't read it or studied for about three years, I don't think I would be much help with the intricacies, which it sounds like that's what you want a break down of. So here's a good site that has lots of informative notes:
http://world.std.com/~raparker/exploring/thewasteland/explore.html

 

[sweetnpetite]

Well here's the thing. To understand the poem you have to understand what World War I did to Europe and western civilization, because that’s what the poem is about. WW I totally destroyed a civilization, and what was left after the smoke cleared was what Eliot referred to as "the wasteland".

WW I wasn’t just a terrible war. It was the end of old Europe with its ideas of civilization, prosperity and progress. Before WW I you had the Victorian era in England with a very structured and orderly society, and similar situations in France and Germany. Europe was wealthy and pretty much content and even smug, and, with Science by their side, people really thought they had things licked. Progress and wealth and general happiness were thought to be inevitable.

WW I was a stupid and avoidable war, but more than that, it was a carnage on a scale people had never even imagined. Even worse, the whole thing was senseless and surreal. It accomplished nothing but to destroy the nations that fought in it. Hundreds of thousands of men died to gain a few yards of ground for no apparent purpose, only to lose it the next week. An entire generation of English, German, and French males was lost. The war dragged on for four bloody years, and when it ended all hope and optimism were utterly destroyed in Europe. The days of the monarchy and the structured, well-ordered society were over. God was dead, and there was nothing left to believe in or, for many, to even live for. Europe was very much like a man in shock.

So this is the setting for Eliot’s poem. The Wasteland itself is a metaphor not just for the battlegrounds of that war, but for the emptiness and deadness that followed. The imagery is full of scenes not of violence, but of sterility, emptiness, and despair. There are many references to people as living dead, and the poet treats ghosts and the living in much the same way, as if they were equal, all of them featureless shades.

I just went back to refresh and read the first couple of verses, and you can see how Eliot starts out with images of the Old Europe of sunny love affairs and visits to one’s cousin the Count of Such and such (the old nobility were one of the casualties of the war, as was that sense of gracious living epitomized by life on the grand estates)

From that image we visit the barren horrors of the blasted landscape where nothing grows, where the war was fought. In the last part of that verse (one of my favorites) we’re at a tarot card reading. It seems as though the lover from the start of the verse is now looking for news of her lost love, or trying to see what the future holds for her. Everything is in chaos, she’d might as well consult the weird symbols of the Tarot (“The drowned Phoenecian sailor…the hanged man) which are filled with vague threat and menace.

In the next verse we find outselves in London, but we can't tell whether the crowds of people are living or dead. Nor does it seem to matter. In a world robbed of meaning and purpose, what difference does it make?

Get the idea?

Hell yeah! That makes all kinds of more sence

I just picked up and tried to read the poem. I had no real idea of all of that background, nor much of an idea of the history of WW1. Thanks Doc.

Here's a link I found to the poem with notes (I didn't see the notes before either)

http://eliotswasteland.tripod.com/

 

[sweetnpetite]

One of the things to realize while reading T.S. Eliot is how extremely well read he was. He makes so many literary allusions in his works that it's hard to keep up with, without having to refer to footnotes every line. So hope you are reading a version that is annotated. I wish I still had my notes from college about this poem so I could help further - it really is a very intricate, almost convoluted piece - I know it was very hard for me to grasp as an undergrad. And being that I haven't read it or studied for about three years, I don't think I would be much help with the intricacies, which it sounds like that's what you want a break down of. So here's a good site that has lots of informative notes:
http://world.std.com/~raparker/exploring/thewasteland/explore.html

See! I'm so glad I asked. Thanks to both of you. (so far)

 

[sweetnpetite]

Translations:

12.Bin gar keine Russin, stamm' aus Litauen, echt deutsch.
I am not Russian at all; I come from Lithuania, I am a real German.

31.Frisch weht der Wind
Der Heimat zu
Mein Irisch Kind
Wo weilest du?
The wind blows fresh
To the Homeland
My Irish Girl
Where are you lingering?

42.Oed' und leer das Meer.
Desolate and empty the sea

76.Hypocrite lecteur! - mon semblable, - mon frère!'
Hypocrite reader! - my doppelganger - my brother!

 

[sweetnpetite]

I really like the line (even though it's a translation) "desolate and empty the sea"

(my last name means, in some languages, Sea. Maybe that's why, or partly)