20th-Century on Poem of the Day

The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock

Mon, 23 Feb 2026 00:00:00 +0000

Let us go then, you and I, When the evening is spread out against the sky Like a patient etherized upon a table; Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets, The muttering retreats Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells: Streets that follow like a tedious argument Of insidious intent To lead you to an overwhelming question… Oh, do not ask, “What is it?” Let us go and make our visit.

In the room the women come and go Talking of Michelangelo.

The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes Of the house toward which I move Is a she, and pulls itself upon me with a tongue Licking into the corners of the evening, Lingering upon the pools that stand in streets, Letting fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys, Slipping by the terrace, making a sudden leap, And seeing that it was a soft October night, Curled once about the house, and fell asleep.

And indeed there will be time For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.

For I have known them all already, known them all— Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons, I have measured out my life with coffee spoons; I know the voices dying with a dying fall Beneath the music from a farther room. So how should I presume?

And should I then presume? And how should I begin?

Shall I say, I have gone at dusk through narrow streets And watched the smoke that rises from the pipes Of lonely men in shirt-sleeves, leaning out of windows?…

I should have been a pair of ragged claws Scuttling across the floors of silent seas.

…But do I dare Disturb the universe? In a minute there are decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.

Do I dare Disturb the universe? The women come and go Talking of Michelangelo.

…No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be; Am an attendant lord, one that will do To swell a progress, start a scene or two, advise the prince; Efficient, prudent, meticulous; Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse; At times, indeed, almost ridiculous— Almost, at times, the Fool.

I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker, And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker, And in short, I was afraid.

And would it have been worth it, after all, After the cups, the marmalade, the tea, Among some talk of you and me, Would it have been worth while, To have bitten off the matter with a smile, To have squeezed the universe into a ball To roll it towards some overwhelming question, To say: “I am Lazarus, come from the dead, Come back to tell you all, I shall tell you all”— If one, settling a pillow by her head, Should say: “That is not it at all, That is not it, at all.”

And the evening with its back turned, flows by like a lonely tragedy— And I have lingered in the chambers of the sea By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown Till human voices wake us, and we drown.

Do Not Go Gentle into That Good Night

Sun, 22 Feb 2026 00:00:00 +0000

Do not go gentle into that good night, Old age should burn and rave at close of day; Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right, Because their words had forked no lightning they Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay, Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight, And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way, Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay, Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on the sad height, Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray. Do not go gentle into that good night. Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Still I Rise

Sun, 22 Feb 2026 00:00:00 +0000

You may write me down in history With your bitter, twisted lies, You may tread me in the very dirt But still, like dust, I’ll rise.

Does it upset you That I don’t have enough words? For every slur, every scar Some silver lining to my life? Just like moons and like suns, With the certainty of tides, Just like hopes springing high, Still I’ll rise.

Did you want to see me broken? Bowed head and lowered eyes? Shoulders falling down like teardrops, Weakened by my soulful cries? Just like air, I’ll rise.

Does it disturb you That I dance like I’ve got diamonds At the meeting of my thighs? Just like air, I’ll rise.

Out of the huts of history’s shame I rise With my head held high I am my people’s dream and hope I rise I rise I rise.

The Road Not Taken

Sun, 22 Feb 2026 00:00:00 +0000

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood, And sorry I could not travel both And be one traveler, long I stood And looked down one as far as I could To where it bent in the undergrowth;

Then took the other, as just as fair, And having perhaps the better claim, Because it was grassy and wanted wear; Though as for that the passing there Had worn them really about the same,

And both that morning equally lay In leaves no step had trodden black. Oh, I kept the first for another day! Yet knowing how way leads on to way, I doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh Somewhere ages and ages hence: Two roads diverged in a wood, and I— I took the one less traveled by, And that has made all the difference.

Tonight I Can Write the Saddest Lines

Sun, 22 Feb 2026 00:00:00 +0000

Tonight I can write the saddest lines.

The night is shattered and the blue stars shiver in the distance. The night wind revolves in the sky and sings.

Tonight I can write the saddest lines. I loved her, and sometimes she loved me too.

Through nights like this one I held her in my arms. I kissed her again and again under the endless sky.

She loved me, sometimes I loved her too. How could one not have loved her great still eyes.

Tonight I can write the saddest lines. To think that I do not have her. To feel that I have lost her.

What does it matter that my love could not keep her. The night is shattered and the blue stars shiver in the distance.

This is all. In the distance the night sings its useless song to the hills. I want to turn toward my soul’s half-empty fields and rake together the scraps of my life.

All of this is cold, and nothing matters, without love. Tonight I can write the saddest lines of the night.