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TS Eliot Preludes 4 - Pythagorean Tuning


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For female voice and harp in Pythagorean tuning


His soul stretched tight across the skies
That fade behind a city block,
Or trampled by insistent feet
At four and five and six o’clock;
And short square fingers stuffing pipes,
And evening newspapers, and eyes
Assured of certain certainties,
The conscience of a blackened street
Impatient to assume the world.

I am moved by fancies that are curled
Around these images, and cling:
The notion of some infinitely gentle
Infinitely suffering thing.

Wipe your hand across your mouth, and laugh;
The worlds revolve like ancient women
Gathering fuel in vacant lots.

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Newbold said

Excellent thanks for taking time and making this happen.. ☺️ this is a most abstract poem like Candy dishes made from a car Axel's while hanging from circular rainbows spilling out of a glass of milk 🥛...

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