by: T.S. Eliot (1888-1965)
- WELVE o’clock.
- Along the reaches of the street
- Held in a lunar synthesis,
- Whispering lunar incantations
- Dissolve the floors of memory
- And all its clear relations,
- Its divisions and precisions,
- Every street lamp that I pass
- Beats like a fatalistic drum,
- And through the spaces of the dark
- Midnight shakes the memory
- As a madman shakes a dead geranium.