T. S. Eliot: Preludes, II

Updated May 6, 2020 | Infoplease Staff
by T. S. Eliot
I
III

II

The morning comes to consciousness
Of faint stale smells of beer
From the sawdust-trampled street
With all its muddy feet that press
To early coffee-stands.
With the other masquerades
That time resumes,
One thinks of all the hands
That are raising dingy shades
In a thousand furnished rooms.
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