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
[Page] 8. Manuscript in blue ink.
love] probable reading; life [?] (there is what may be a dot above, but no ascender or descender for an f).
Tristan and Isolde
'And the fatalistic horns
The passionate violins
And ominous clarinet;
And love torturing itself
To emotion for all there is in it,
Writhing in and out
Contorted in paroxysms,
Flinging itself at the last
'Limits of self-expression.
We have the tragic? oh no!
Life departs with a feeble smile
Into the indifferent.
These emotional experiences
Do not hold good at all,
And I feel like the ghost of youth
At the undertakers’ ball.
Opera was written by T.S. Eliot.
Opera was produced by Sir Christopher Ricks.