but at my back from time to time i hear

the sound of horns and motors, which shall bring

sweeney to mrs. porter in the spring.

o the moon shone bright on mrs. porter

and on her daughter 

they wash their feet in soda water

et o ces voix denfants, chantant dans la coupole! 

twit twit twit

jug jug jug jug jug jug

so rudely forcd.

tereu 

unreal city

under the brown fog of a winter noon

mr. eugenides, the smyrna merchant

unshaven, with a pocket full of currants

c.i.f. london: documents at sight,

asked me in demotic french

to luncheon at the cannon street hotel

followed by a weekend at the metropole. 

at the violet hour, when the eyes and back

turn upward from the desk, when the human engine waits

like a taxi throbbing waiting,

i tiresias, though blind, throbbing between two lives,

old man with wrinkled female breasts, can see

at the violet hour, the evening hour that strives   

homeward, and brings the sailor home from sea,

the typist home at teatime, clears her breakfast, lights

her stove, and lays out food in tins.

out of the window perilously spread

her drying combinations touched by the suns last rays,

on the divan are piled (at night her bed)

stockings, slippers, camisoles, and stays.

i tiresias, old man with wrinkled dugs

perceived the scene, and foretold the rest -

i too awaited the expected guest.   

he, the young man carbuncular, arrives,

a small house agents clerk, with one bold stare,

one of the low on whom assurance sits

as a silk hat on a bradford millionaire.

the time is now propitious, as he guesses,

the meal is ended, she is bored and tired,

endeavours to engage her in caresses

which still are unreproved, if undesired.

flushed and decided, he assaults at once;

exploring hands encounter no defence;   

his vanity requires no response,

and makes a welcome of indifference.

(and i tiresias have foresuffered all

enacted on this same divan or bed;

i who have sat by thebes below the wall

and walked among the lowest of the dead.)

bestows one final patronising kiss,

and gropes his way, finding the stairs unlit . . .