The Hollow Men
T. S. Eliot (1925)
Mistah Kurtz—he dead
A penny for the Old Guy
(35) I Behaving as the wind behaves We are the hollow men No nearer --
We are the stuffed men
Leaning together Not that final meeting Headpiece filled with straw. Alas! In the twilight kingdom
(5) Our dried voices, when
We whisper together III
Are quiet and meaningless
As wind in dry grass This is the dead land
(40) Or rats' feet over broken glass This is cactus land In our dry cellar Here the stone images (10)
Are raised, here they receive Shape without form, shade without colour, The supplication of a dead man's hand Paralysed force, gesture without motion; Under the twinkle of a fading star.
(45) Those who have crossed Is it like this
With direct eyes, to death's other Kingdom In death's other kingdom (15) Remember us -- if at all -- not as lost Waking alone
Violent souls, but only At the hour when we are As the hollow men Trembling with tenderness The stuffed men. (50) Lips that would kiss
Form prayers to broken stone. II
Eyes I dare not meet in dreams
In death's dream kingdom The eyes are not here (20)
These do not appear: There are no eyes here There, the eyes are In this valley of dying stars
(55) Sunlight on a broken column In this hollow valley There, is a tree swinging This broken jaw of our lost kingdoms
(25) And voices are
In the wind's singing In this last of meeting places More distant and more solemn We grope together
Than a fading star. And avoid speech
Gathered on this beach of the tumid river (60) Let me be no nearer (30) In death's dream kingdom Sightless, unless
Let me also wear The eyes reappear
Such deliberate disguises As the perpetual star Rat's coat, crowskin, crossed staves Multifoliate rose
Of death's twilight kingdom (65)
In a field The hope only
Of empty men.
Here we go round the prickly pear Prickly pear prickly pear (70)
Here we go round the prickly pear At five o'clock in the morning. Between the idea
And the reality
Between the motion
(75) And the act
Falls the Shadow
For Thine is the Kingdom Between the conception
And the creation
Between the emotion (80)
And the response
Falls the Shadow
Life is very long
Between the desire
And the spasm (85)
Between the potency
And the existence
Between the essence
And the descent
(90) Falls the Shadow
For Thine is the Kingdom For Thine is
For Thine is the
(95) This is the way the world ends This is the way the world ends This is the way the world ends Not with a bang but a whimper.
YOU may talk o‟ gin and beer
When you‟re quartered safe out ‟ere,
An‟ you‟re sent to penny-fights an‟ Aldershot it; But when it comes to slaughter You will do your work on water, An‟ you‟ll lick the bloomin‟ boots of ‟im that‟s got it.
Now in Injia‟s sunny clime,
Where I used to spend my time A-servin‟ of ‟Er Majesty the Queen,
Of all them blackfaced crew The finest man I knew
Was our regimental bhisti, Gunga Din.
He was “Din! Din! Din!
You limpin‟ lump o‟ brick-dust, Gunga Din!
Hi! slippery hitherao!
Water, get it! Panee lao
You squidgy-nosed old idol, Gunga Din.”
The uniform ‟e wore
Was nothin‟ much before,
An‟ rather less than ‟arf o‟ that be‟ind,
For a piece o‟ twisty rag
An‟ a goatskin water-bag
Was all the field-equipment ‟e could find.
When the sweatin‟ troop-train lay
In a sidin‟ through the day,
Where the ‟eat would make your bloomin‟ eyebrows crawl, We shouted “Harry By!”
Till our throats were bricky-dry, Then we wopped „im „cause ‟e couldn‟t serve us all.
It was “Din! Din! Din!
You ‟eathen, where the mischief ‟ave you been?
You put some juldee in it
Or I‟ll marrow you this minute
If you don‟t fill up my helmet, Gunga Din!”
‟E would dot an‟ carry one
Till the longest day was done; An‟ ‟e didn‟t seem to know the use o‟ fear.
If we charged or broke or cut, You could bet your bloomin‟ nut,
‟E‟d be waitin‟ fifty paces right flank rear.
With ‟is mussick on „is back,
‟E would skip with our attack,
An‟ watch us till the bugles made “Retire”,
An‟ for all ‟is dirty ‟ide
‟E was white, clear white, inside
When ‟e went to tend the wounded under fire!
It was “Din! Din! Din!”
With the bullets kickin‟ dust-spots on the green.
When the cartridges ran out,
You could hear the front-files shout,
”Hi! ammunition-mules an‟ Gunga Din!”
I shan‟t forgit the night
When I dropped be‟ind the fight
With a bullet where my belt-plate should ‟a‟ been.
I was chokin‟ mad with thirst,
An‟ the man that spied me first
Was our good old grinnin‟, gruntin‟ Gunga Din.
‟E lifted up my ‟ead,
An‟ he plugged me where I bled, An‟ ‟e guv me ‟arf-a-pint o‟ water-green:
It was crawlin‟ and it stunk,
But of all the drinks I‟ve drunk,
I‟m gratefullest to one from Gunga Din.
It was “Din! Din! Din!
‟Ere‟s a beggar with a bullet through ‟is spleen;
‟E‟s chawin‟ up the ground,
An‟ ‟e‟s kickin‟ all around:
For Gawd‟s sake git the water, Gunga Din!”
‟E carried me away
To where a dooli lay,
An‟ a bullet come an‟ drilled the beggar clean.
‟E put me safe inside,
An‟ just before ‟e died,
“I ‟ope you liked your drink”, sez Gunga Din.
So I‟ll meet ‟im later on
At the place where ‟e is gone—
Where it‟s always double drill and no canteen;
‟E‟ll be squattin‟ on the coals
Givin‟ drink to poor damned souls,
An‟ I‟ll get a swig in hell from Gunga Din!
Yes, Din! Din! Din!
You Lazarushian-leather Gunga Din!
Though I‟ve belted you and flayed
By the livin‟ Gawd that made you,
You‟re a better man than I am, Gunga Din!
Rudyard Kipling's Verse
If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you, If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
But make allowance for their doubting too; If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or being lied about, don't deal in lies, Or being hated, don't give way to hating,
And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise:
If you can dream-and not make dreams your master;
If you can think-and not make thoughts your aim; If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
And treat those two imposters just the same; If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools, Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,
And stoop and build 'em up with worn-out tools:
If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss, And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breathe a word about your loss; If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone, And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: "Hold on!"
If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
Or walk with Kings-nor lose the common touch, If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,
If all men count with you, but none too much; If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds' worth of distance run, Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it,
And-which is more-you'll be a Man, my son!