T.S. Eliot
T.S. Eliot
T.S. Eliot
T.S. Eliot
T.S. Eliot
T.S. Eliot
T.S. Eliot
T.S. Eliot
T.S. Eliot
T.S. Eliot
T.S. Eliot
T.S. Eliot
T.S. Eliot
T.S. Eliot
T.S. Eliot
T.S. Eliot
T.S. Eliot
T.S. Eliot
T.S. Eliot
T.S. Eliot
T.S. Eliot
T.S. Eliot
T.S. Eliot
T.S. Eliot
T.S. Eliot
T.S. Eliot
T.S. Eliot
T.S. Eliot
T.S. Eliot
T.S. Eliot
T.S. Eliot
T.S. Eliot
T.S. Eliot
T.S. Eliot
A street-piano, garrulous and frail;
The yellow evening flung against the panes
Of dirty windows: and the distant strains
Of children’s voices, ended in a wail.
Bottles and broken glass,
Trampled mud and grass;
A heap of broken barrows;
And a crowd of tattered sparrows
Delve in the gutter with sordid patience.
Oh, these minor considerations! . . . . .