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June 1915 | |||
== WikiProject Oregon == | |||
<imagemap> Image:Qxz-ad63.gif | |||
default ] | |||
desc none </imagemap> | |||
The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock | |||
Or we now have a ] too! ] 23:59, 2 August 2007 (UTC) | |||
By T. S. Eliot | |||
== I'm SQL now... == | |||
Just a note, I ], to one that I like better (From '''SXT40''' to '''SQL'''), if you need anything, I can be reached at ]. --]<sup><small>(])</small></sup> 06:39, 2 September 2007 (UTC) | |||
S’io credesse che mia risposta fosse | |||
== Thanks == | |||
A persona che mai tornasse al mondo | |||
Questa fiamma staria sensa piu scosse. | |||
Ma perciocche giammai di questo fondo | |||
Non torno vivo alcun, s’i’odo il vero | |||
Sensa tema d’infamia ti rispondo. | |||
Let us go then, you and I, | |||
Thank you for the Barnstar. ] 05:54, 17 September 2007 (UTC) | |||
When the evening is spread out against the sky | |||
Like a patient etherized upon a table; | |||
Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets, | |||
The muttering retreats | |||
Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels | |||
And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells: | |||
Streets that follow like a tedious argument | |||
Of insidious intent | |||
To lead you to an overwhelming question . . . | |||
Oh, do not ask, ‘What is it?’ | |||
Let us go and make our visit. | |||
In the room the women come and go | |||
== Behavior of Allgoodnamesalreadytaken/Gtadoc == | |||
Talking of Michelangelo. | |||
The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes, | |||
{{{icon|] }}}Please stop. If you continue to ] Misplaced Pages{{{{{subst|}}}#if:http://en.wikipedia.org/User:Allgoodnamesalreadytaken|, as you did to ]}}, you ''will'' be ] from editing. {{{{{subst|}}}#if:{{{2|}}}|{{{2}}}|}}<!-- Template:uw-vandalism3 --> <small>—Preceding ] comment added by ] (] • ])</small><!-- Template:Unsigned --> | |||
The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes, | |||
Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening, | |||
Lingered upon the pools that stand in drains, | |||
Let fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys, | |||
Slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap, | |||
And seeing that it was a soft October night, | |||
Curled once about the house, and fell asleep. | |||
And indeed there will be time | |||
---- | |||
For the yellow smoke that slides along the street, | |||
Rubbing its back upon the window-panes; | |||
There will be time, there will be time | |||
To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet; | |||
There will be time to murder and create, | |||
And time for all the works and days of hands | |||
That lift and drop a question on your plate; | |||
Time for you and time for me, | |||
And time yet for a hundred indecisions, | |||
And for a hundred visions and revisions, | |||
Before the taking of a toast and tea. | |||
In the room the women come and go | |||
{{{icon|] }}}This is the '''only warning''' you will receive. Your recent ]{{{{{subst|}}}#if:{{{1|}}}|, as you did to ], }} will not be tolerated. Although vandalizing articles on occasions that are days or weeks apart from each other sometimes prevents editors from being ], your continued vandalism constitutes a long term pattern of abuse. The next time you vandalize a page, you ''will'' be blocked from editing Misplaced Pages. {{{{{subst|}}}#if:{{{2|}}}|{{{2}}}|}} <!-- Template:Uw-longterm --> <small>—Preceding ] comment added by ] (] • ])</small><!-- Template:Unsigned --> | |||
Talking of Michelangelo. | |||
And indeed there will be time | |||
=== SSP on User:Gtadoc === | |||
To wonder, ‘Do I dare?’ and, ‘Do I dare?’ | |||
Time to turn back and descend the stair, | |||
With a bald spot in the middle of my hair— | |||
My morning coat, my collar mounting firmly to the chin, | |||
My necktie rich and modest, but asserted by a simple pin— | |||
Do I dare | |||
Disturb the universe? | |||
In a minute there is time | |||
For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse. | |||
For I have known them all already, known them all— | |||
IDK, if this belongs over there or not, but, here's my analysis of the respective contribs, use it if you want, but, If you're going to move forward with this, you will need to show how these accounts are being abusive, if they are indeed socks. ] is where you'll find the relevant policy. | |||
Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons, | |||
I have measured out my life with coffee spoons; | |||
I know the voices dying with a dying fall | |||
Beneath the music from a farther room. | |||
So how should I presume? | |||
And I have known the eyes already, known them all— | |||
:Here's my understanding of the timeline from the respective users contribs: | |||
The eyes that fix you in a formulated phrase, | |||
And when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin, | |||
When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall, | |||
Then how should I begin | |||
To spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways? | |||
And how should I presume? | |||
And I have known the arms already, known them all— | |||
:*] stops editing 8/10/07 at | |||
Arms that are braceleted and white and bare | |||
:*] . | |||
:*] picks back up editing at to tell ] that he or she has quit Misplaced Pages. | |||
Is it perfume from a dress | |||
:*] picks up editing at until . No further edits until 8/19/07. | |||
That makes me so digress? | |||
:*] Edits again at and, calls it a day, until 8/19/07. | |||
Arms that lie along a table, or wrap about a shawl. | |||
:*] Resumes editing at , until . | |||
And should I then presume? | |||
:*] Picks up editing on the same article, at , and, edits until . Calls it quits until 08/23/07. | |||
And how should I begin? | |||
:*] Picks back up on editing at , until . Then, resumes editing at until the user's final edit at | |||
. . . . . | |||
Be forewarned, I've been known to make mistakes, and, this summary isn't necessarily proof one way or another. --]<sup><math>\color{Red} \oplus</math></sup> 07:46, 28 August 2007 (UTC) | |||
Shall I say, I have gone at dusk through narrow streets | |||
---- | |||
And watched the smoke that rises from the pipes | |||
Of lonely men in shirt-sleeves, leaning out of windows? . . . | |||
I should have been a pair of ragged claws | |||
{{{icon|] }}}Please stop. If you continue to ] Misplaced Pages{{{{{subst|}}}#if:http://en.wikipedia.org/Wikipedia:Vandalism|, as you did to ]}}, you ''will'' be ] from editing. {{{{{subst|}}}#if:{{{2|}}}|{{{2}}}|}}<!-- Template:uw-vandalism3 --> | |||
Scuttling across the floors of silent seas. | |||
Adding sockpuppet tags (as you've ben told by admin) to users who have not violated ] is not appropriate, repeatedly doing so after warning is considered vandalism. Please read ] if you don't understand WP policies. | |||
] 12:34, 29 August 2007 (UTC) | |||
. . . . . | |||
And the afternoon, the evening, sleeps so peacefully! | |||
Smoothed by long fingers, | |||
Asleep . . . tired . . . or it malingers | |||
Stretched on the floor, here beside you and me. | |||
Should I, after tea and cakes and ices, | |||
Have the strength to force the moment to its crisis? | |||
But though I have wept and fasted, wept and prayed, | |||
Though I have seen my head brought in upon a platter | |||
I am no prophet—and here’s no great matter; | |||
I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker, | |||
And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker, | |||
And in short, I was afraid. | |||
And would it have been worth it, after all, | |||
After the cups, the marmalade, the tea, | |||
Among the porcelain, among some talk of you and me, | |||
Would it have been worth while | |||
To have bitten off the matter with a smile, | |||
To have squeezed the universe into a ball | |||
To roll it toward some overwhelming question, | |||
To say: ‘I am Lazarus, come from the dead, | |||
Come back to tell you all, I shall tell you all’— | |||
If one, settling a pillow by her head, | |||
Should say: ‘That is not what I meant at all. | |||
That is not it, at all.’ | |||
And would it have been worth it, after all, | |||
Would it have been worth while, | |||
After the sunsets and the dooryards and the sprinkled streets, | |||
After the novels, after the teacups, after the skirts that trail along the floor— | |||
And this, and so much more?— | |||
It is impossible to say just what I mean! | |||
But as if a magic lantern threw the nerves in patterns on a screen: | |||
Would it have been worth while | |||
If one, settling a pillow or throwing off a shawl, | |||
And turning toward the window, should say: | |||
‘That is not it at all, | |||
That is not what I meant at all.’ | |||
No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be; | |||
Am an attendant lord, one that will do | |||
To swell a progress, start a scene or two | |||
Advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool, | |||
Deferential, glad to be of use, | |||
Politic, cautious, and meticulous; | |||
Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse; | |||
At times, indeed, almost ridiculous— | |||
Almost, at times, the Fool. | |||
I grow old . . . I grow old . . . | |||
I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled. | |||
Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach? | |||
I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach. | |||
I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each. | |||
I do not think that they will sing to me. | |||
I have seen them riding seaward on the waves | |||
Combing the white hair of the waves blown back | |||
When the wind blows the water white and black. | |||
We have lingered in the chambers of the sea | |||
By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown | |||
Till human voices wake us, and we drown. | |||
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Latest revision as of 21:32, 28 July 2022
June 1915
The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock By T. S. Eliot
S’io credesse che mia risposta fosse A persona che mai tornasse al mondo Questa fiamma staria sensa piu scosse. Ma perciocche giammai di questo fondo Non torno vivo alcun, s’i’odo il vero Sensa tema d’infamia ti rispondo.
Let us go then, you and I, When the evening is spread out against the sky Like a patient etherized upon a table; Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets, The muttering retreats Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells: Streets that follow like a tedious argument Of insidious intent To lead you to an overwhelming question . . . Oh, do not ask, ‘What is it?’ Let us go and make our visit.
In the room the women come and go Talking of Michelangelo.
The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes, The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes, Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening, Lingered upon the pools that stand in drains, Let fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys, Slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap, And seeing that it was a soft October night, Curled once about the house, and fell asleep.
And indeed there will be time For the yellow smoke that slides along the street, Rubbing its back upon the window-panes; There will be time, there will be time To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet; There will be time to murder and create, And time for all the works and days of hands That lift and drop a question on your plate; Time for you and time for me, And time yet for a hundred indecisions, And for a hundred visions and revisions, Before the taking of a toast and tea.
In the room the women come and go Talking of Michelangelo.
And indeed there will be time To wonder, ‘Do I dare?’ and, ‘Do I dare?’ Time to turn back and descend the stair, With a bald spot in the middle of my hair— My morning coat, my collar mounting firmly to the chin, My necktie rich and modest, but asserted by a simple pin— Do I dare Disturb the universe? In a minute there is time For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.
For I have known them all already, known them all— Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons, I have measured out my life with coffee spoons; I know the voices dying with a dying fall Beneath the music from a farther room. So how should I presume?
And I have known the eyes already, known them all— The eyes that fix you in a formulated phrase, And when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin, When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall, Then how should I begin To spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways? And how should I presume?
And I have known the arms already, known them all— Arms that are braceleted and white and bare Is it perfume from a dress That makes me so digress? Arms that lie along a table, or wrap about a shawl. And should I then presume? And how should I begin?
. . . . .
Shall I say, I have gone at dusk through narrow streets And watched the smoke that rises from the pipes Of lonely men in shirt-sleeves, leaning out of windows? . . .
I should have been a pair of ragged claws Scuttling across the floors of silent seas.
. . . . .
And the afternoon, the evening, sleeps so peacefully! Smoothed by long fingers, Asleep . . . tired . . . or it malingers Stretched on the floor, here beside you and me. Should I, after tea and cakes and ices, Have the strength to force the moment to its crisis? But though I have wept and fasted, wept and prayed, Though I have seen my head brought in upon a platter I am no prophet—and here’s no great matter; I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker, And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker, And in short, I was afraid.
And would it have been worth it, after all, After the cups, the marmalade, the tea, Among the porcelain, among some talk of you and me, Would it have been worth while To have bitten off the matter with a smile, To have squeezed the universe into a ball To roll it toward some overwhelming question, To say: ‘I am Lazarus, come from the dead, Come back to tell you all, I shall tell you all’— If one, settling a pillow by her head, Should say: ‘That is not what I meant at all. That is not it, at all.’
And would it have been worth it, after all, Would it have been worth while, After the sunsets and the dooryards and the sprinkled streets, After the novels, after the teacups, after the skirts that trail along the floor— And this, and so much more?— It is impossible to say just what I mean! But as if a magic lantern threw the nerves in patterns on a screen: Would it have been worth while If one, settling a pillow or throwing off a shawl, And turning toward the window, should say: ‘That is not it at all, That is not what I meant at all.’
No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be; Am an attendant lord, one that will do To swell a progress, start a scene or two Advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool, Deferential, glad to be of use, Politic, cautious, and meticulous; Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse; At times, indeed, almost ridiculous— Almost, at times, the Fool.
I grow old . . . I grow old . . . I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.
Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach? I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach. I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.
I do not think that they will sing to me.
I have seen them riding seaward on the waves Combing the white hair of the waves blown back When the wind blows the water white and black.
We have lingered in the chambers of the sea By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown Till human voices wake us, and we drown.
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