the waste land by t.s. eliot

"... At the violet hour, when the eyes and back	215
Turn upward from the desk, when the human engine waits
Like a taxi throbbing waiting,
I Tiresias, though blind, throbbing between two lives,
Old man with wrinkled female breasts, can see
At the violet hour, the evening hour that strives	220
Homeward, and brings the sailor home from sea,
The typist home at tea-time, 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,	225
On the divan are piled (at night her bed)
Stockings, slippers, camisoles, and stays. ..."

auszug aus the waste land. 1922. (via www.bartleby.com)


hier in voller länge:
http://town.hall.org/Archives/radio/IMS/HarperAudio/011894_harp_ITH.html