The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes from The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock, by T.S. Eliot Palled Continuing with dawn, an unsettled pall, first cast upon my mood in restless slumber. Exhausted from a night of being chased, barefoot, through rotting vegetation by old beaus, I startled awake, breathing heavily….
Tag: T.S. Eliot
dVerse — Prosery — Morning Muse
What are the roots that clutch, what branches grow out of this stony rubbish?— by T.S. Eliot, from The Waste Land Morning Muse She lay in a heap at the bottom of the back steps. Cold from the October morning’s hard-packed dirt crept into the arm, her right, that crumpled askew under her large…
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