T. S. Eliot

REPRINTED FROM 1908 ISSUE



 



Around her fountain which flows



With the voice of men in pain,



Are flowers that no man knows. 



Their petals are fanged and red



With hideous streak and stain;



They sprang from the limbs of the dead.—



We shall not come here again. 



 



Panthers rise from their lairs



In the forest which thickens below,



Along the garden stairs



The sluggish python lies;



The peacocks walk, stately and slow,



And they look at us with the eyes



Of men whom we knew long ago.