| I. THE BURIAL OF THE DEADAPRIL is the cruellest month, breeding |
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| Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing |
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| Memory and desire, stirring |
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| Dull roots with spring rain. |
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| Winter kept us warm, covering |
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| Earth in forgetful snow, feeding |
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| A little life with dried tubers. |
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| Summer surprised us, coming over the Starnbergersee |
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| With a shower of rain; we stopped in the colonnade, |
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| And went on in sunlight, into the Hofgarten, |
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| And drank coffee, and talked for an hour. |
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| Bin gar keine Russin, stamm’ aus Litauen, echt deutsch. |
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| And when we were children, staying at the archduke’s, |
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| My cousin’s, he took me out on a sled, |
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| And I was frightened. He said, Marie, |
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| Marie, hold on tight. And down we went. |
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| In the mountains, there you feel free. |
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| I read, much of the night, and go south in the winter. |
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| What are the roots that clutch, what branches grow |
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| Out of this stony rubbish? Son of man, |
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| You cannot say, or guess, for you know only |
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| A heap of broken images, where the sun beats, |
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| And the dead tree gives no shelter, the cricket no relief, |
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| And the dry stone no sound of water. Only |
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| There is shadow under this red rock, |
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| (Come in under the shadow of this red rock), |
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| And I will show you something different from either |
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| Your shadow at morning striding behind you |
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| Or your shadow at evening rising to meet you; |
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| I will show you fear in a handful of dust. |
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| Frisch weht der Wind |
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| Der Heimat zu. |
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| Mein Irisch Kind, |
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| Wo weilest du? |
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| ‘You gave me hyacinths first a year ago; |
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| ‘They called me the hyacinth girl.’ |
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| —Yet when we came back, late, from the Hyacinth garden, |
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| Your arms full, and your hair wet, I could not |
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| Speak, and my eyes failed, I was neither |
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| Living nor dead, and I knew nothing, |
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| Looking into the heart of light, the silence. |
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| Od’ und leer das Meer. |
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