“His
soul stretched tight across the skies
That
fade behind a city block,
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,
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
Infinitely suffering
thing.”—American-born British poet T.S. Eliot (1888-1965), “Preludes” (1917)
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