As I do every once in a long while,

Having forgotten, I pull off the shelf

The Collected Works of Mister Thomas

Stearns Eliot, beginning at page one,

Beginning at the beginning, page one,

The Love Song of J. Alfred Pru . . .

. . . frock, reading with admiration, or should

I say appreciation, of foggy

Nights and yellow smoke, mismatched souls,

Stifling drawing parlors, arid passions,

Complicated rhyme schemes, voyeur’s peepings,

Nocturnal scurryings, the pages seem 

To turn themselves, until "Gerontion,” then,

"And the jew squats on the window sill, the owner,

Spawned in some estaminet of Antwerp."

I can forgive him this, who knows? Not I,

Not yet, but why now does my chair seem too

Hard, the air too chill, why, too, cannot I,

Quite, settle back into the words, though the

Poems are very good? I should know by now,

Never let down my guard, but the warm sun

Feels so good, lulls me, and the company 

Is good, and I do, I do let down my guard, 

Drifting, without concern, among the words,

 "The rats are underneath the piles.

The jew is underneath the lot.

Money in furs."[

I sigh, and close the book. Too far away,

Too long ago, too miserable a

Man to forgive. It has been a lovely 

Day, now this? This cloud? I needn't forgive

The man, others may, I needn't, not when

Such minds as his did so much—damage.

I close my eyes, rest my head on the back 

Of the rocker, taking in the sun's rays,

Its warmth, and its beneficence, on this

Strangely warm January day. I hope

I will remember, and they'll not be a

Next time, that such a man as he should spoil,

Even for a moment, another day, 

Reading in the sun. I do not need it.

Though it occurs to me, that you do not 

Need it, either, that by spoiling my day,

I may have spoiled yours. I offer this

In compensation to undo, annul, 

Dispel, this cloud I’ve brought into the room.

It’s old, and lame, but I must, at least, try:

The country boy, from rural Missouri, 

Is admitted to Harvard. Arriving 

At the prestigious campus he admires 

The stature of the buildings, and 

The confidence of the students striding 

Purposefully, and he, lost and . . . dazèd,

Stops a passing upperclassman and asks, 

“Where’s the library at?” And the handsome

Upperclassman says, in a deriding 

Tone, “don’t you know not to end a sentence 

In a preposition?” Our hero, mocked,

Replies, "where’s the library at, asshole?”