THEY are rattling breakfast plates in basement kitchens,
And along the trampled edges of the street
I am aware of the damp souls of housemaids
Sprouting despondently at area gates.

The brown waves of fog toss up to me
Twisted faces from the bottom of the street,
And tear from a passer-by with muddy skirts
An aimless smile that hovers in the air
And vanishes along the level of the roofs.

Added: on February 6th, 2005 at 10:26 PM | Viewed: 4702 times | Comments (1)

Poet: T.S. Eliot
Poem: 5. Morning at the Window
Volume: Prufrock and Other Observations
Year: Published/Written in 1917

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