American Literature · British Culture · Classic · Collection · Excerpt · Modernism · Passage · Poetry

T. S. Eliot

Stand on the highest pavement of the stair—
Lean on a garden urn—
Weave, weave the sunlight in your hair—
Clasp your flowers to you with a pained surprise—
Fling them to the ground and turn
With a fugitive resentment in your eyes:
But weave, weave the sunlight in your hair.

—  T. S. Eliot, from “La Figlia Che Piange,” (“Young Girl Weeping”,) Prufrock and Other Observations. (Kessinger Publishing, LLC September 10, 2010) Originally published 1917.

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