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  A Cooking Egg

  En l’an trentiesme do mon aage

  Que toutes mes hontes j’ay beues...

  PIPIT sate upright in her chair

  Some distance from where I was sitting;

  Views of the Oxford Colleges

  Lay on the table, with the knitting.

  Daguerreotypes and silhouettes,

  Here grandfather and great great aunts,

  Supported on the mantelpiece

  An Invitation to the Dance.

  . . . . .

  I shall not want Honour in Heaven

  For I shall meet Sir Philip Sidney

  And have talk with Coriolanus

  And other heroes of that kidney.

  I shall not want Capital in Heaven

  For I shall meet Sir Alfred Mond.

  We two shall lie together, lapt

  In a five per cent. Exchequer Bond.

  I shall not want Society in Heaven,

  Lucretia Borgia shall be my Bride;

  Her anecdotes will be more amusing

  Than Pipit’s experience could provide.

  I shall not want Pipit in Heaven:

  Madame Blavatsky will instruct me

  In the Seven Sacred Trances;

  Piccarda de Donati will conduct me.

  . . . . .

  But where is the penny world I bought

  To eat with Pipit behind the screen?

  The red-eyed scavengers are creeping

  From Kentish Town and Golder’s Green;

  Where are the eagles and the trumpets?

  Buried beneath some snow-deep Alps.

  Over buttered scones and crumpets

  Weeping, weeping multitudes

  Droop in a hundred A.B.C.’s

 

 

  T. S. Eliot, A Cooking Egg

  (Series: # )

 

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