Preludes

I've gotten into T.S. Eliot's earlier work of late. Here's an excerpt from a poem I'm all about. The beauty of language describing such a sordid and sad state is heart-breaking in some ways. But. Still beautiful:

You tossed a blanket from the bed,
You lay upon your back, and waited;
You dozed, and watched the night revealing
The thousand sordid images
Of which your soul constituted;
They flickered against the ceiling.
And when all the world came back
And the light crept up between the shutters
And you heard the sparrows in the gutters,
You had such a vision of the street
As the street hardly understands;
Sitting along the bed's edge, where
You curled the papers from your hair,
Or clasped the yellow soles of feet
In the palms of both soiled hands.