First Debate between the Body and Soul T.S. Eliot
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First Debate between the Body and Soul
The August wind is shambling down the street
A blind old man who coughs and spits sputters
Stumbling among the alleys and the gutters.
He pokes and prods
With senile patience
The withered leaves
Of our sensations —
And yet devoted to the pure idea
One sits delaying in the vacant square
Forced to endure the blind inconscient stare
Of twenty leering houses that exude
The odour of their turpitude
And a street piano through the dusty trees
Insisting: “Make the best of your position” —
The pure Idea dies of inanition
The street pianos through the trees
Whine and wheeze.
Imaginations
Masturbations
The withered leaves
Of our sensations —
The August wind is shambling down the street
A blind old man who coughs and spits sputters
Stumbling among the alleys and the gutters.
He pokes and prods
With senile patience
The withered leaves
Of our sensations —
And yet devoted to the pure idea
One sits delaying in the vacant square
Forced to endure the blind inconscient stare
Of twenty leering houses that exude
The odour of their turpitude
And a street piano through the dusty trees
Insisting: “Make the best of your position” —
The pure Idea dies of inanition
The street pianos through the trees
Whine and wheeze.
Imaginations
Masturbations
The withered leaves
Of our sensations —
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