Poem 9 (Pandemic Day 26)

I. THE BURIAL OF THE DEAD 
April is the cruellest month, breeding 
Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing 
Memory and desire, stirring 
Dull roots with spring rain. 
Winter kept us warm, covering 
Earth in forgetful snow, feeding 
A little life with dried tubers. 
Summer surprised us, coming over the Starnbergersee 
With a shower of rain; we stopped in the colonnade, 
And went on in sunlight, into the Hofgarten,                             
And drank coffee, and talked for an hour. 
Bin gar keine Russin, stamm’ aus Litauen, echt deutsch. 
And when we were children, staying at the archduke’s, 
My cousin’s, he took me out on a sled, 
And I was frightened. He said, Marie, 
Marie, hold on tight. And down we went. 
In the mountains, there you feel free. 
I read, much of the night, and go south in the winter.

What are the roots that clutch, what branches grow 
Out of this stony rubbish? Son of man,                                 
You cannot say, or guess, for you know only
A heap of broken images, where the sun beats, 
And the dead tree gives no shelter, the cricket no relief, 
And the dry stone no sound of water. Only 
There is shadow under this red rock, 
(Come in under the shadow of this red rock), 
And I will show you something different from either 
Your shadow at morning striding behind you 
Or your shadow at evening rising to meet you; 
I will show you fear in a handful of dust.                           

From: T. S. Eliot. The Waste Land, Harvest Book, Harcourt Brace, 1962

This paperback copy (listed price: $1.25) has been with me since I read it in Mr. McFarland's Humanities class at Moorhead State in the early 1970's.  I had some amazing professors there, Larry McFarland and especially Dr. Clarence Glasrud, English instructor whose nickname was Soc (short for Socrates).
 I'll have to admit I was a receptive student, full of youthful idealism--literature took this country girl to exotic and esoteric places in both time and space.  I had such a desire to be "erudite", even if that word had not been in my vocabulary before.
The Waste Land was a dense poem, full of literary allusions and historical references.  I noted them all in small and careful writing in a purple pen.
Written in 1921 and published in 1922 it was inspired by the ravages of W.W. I.  Perhaps another great literary masterpiece like this will arise of this global crisis.
While The Waste Land is still under copyright protection in the U.K. and Europe by has been in the public domain in the U.S. since 1998.  If you would like to read this amazing poem or other available class books; Project Gutenberg is the best source.