En l'an trentiesme de mon aage <br /> Que toutes mes hontes j'ay beucs ... <br /> <br /> <br />Pipit sate upright in her chair <br /> Some distance from where I was sitting; <br />Views of the Oxford Colleges <br /> Lay on the table, with the knitting. <br /> <br />Daguerreotypes and silhouettes, <br /> Her grandfather and great great aunts, <br />Supported on the mantelpiece <br /> An Invitation to the Dance. <br /> . . . . . . <br />I shall not want Honour in Heaven <br /> For I shall meet Sir Philip Sidney <br />And have talk with Coriolanus <br /> And other heroes of that kidney. <br /> <br />I shall not want Capital in Heaven <br /> For I shall meet Sir Alfred Mond: <br />We two shall lie together, lapt <br /> In a five per cent Exchequer Bond. <br /> <br />I shall not want Society in Heaven, <br /> Lucretia Borgia shall be my Bride; <br />Her anecdotes will be more amusing <br /> Than Pipit's experience could provide. <br /> <br />I shall not want Pipit in Heaven: <br /> Madame Blavatsky will instruct me <br />In the Seven Sacred Trances; <br /> Piccarda de Donati will conduct me ... <br /> . . . . . . <br />But where is the penny world I bought <br /> To eat with Pipit behind the screen? <br />The red-eyed scavengers are creeping <br /> From Kentish Town and Golder's Green; <br /> <br />Where are the eagles and the trumpets? <br /> <br /> Buried beneath some snow-deep Alps. <br />Over buttered scones and crumpets <br /> Weeping, weeping multitudes <br />Droop in a hundred A.B.C.'s<br /><br />Thomas Stearns Eliot<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/a-cooking-egg/
