by T. S. Eliot · 1915 · 4 min read · 131 lines
Let us go then, you and I,When the evening is spread out against the skyLike a patient etherized upon a table;Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets,The muttering retreatsOf restless nights in one-night cheap hotelsAnd sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells:Streets that follow like a tedious argumentOf insidious intentTo 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 goTalking of Michelangelo.
The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes,The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes,Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening,Lingered upon the pools that stand in drains,Let fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys,Slipped by the terrace, made 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 timeFor the yellow smoke that slides along the street,Rubbing its back upon the window-panes;There will be time, there will be timeTo prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;There will be time to murder and create,And time for all the works and days of handsThat lift and drop a question on your plate;Time for you and time for me,And time yet for a hundred indecisions,And for a hundred visions and revisions,Before the taking of a toast and tea.
In the room the women come and goTalking of Michelangelo.
And indeed there will be timeTo wonder, “Do I dare?” and, “Do I dare?”Time to turn back and descend the stair,With a bald spot in the middle of my hair—(They will say: “How his hair is growing thin!”)My morning coat, my collar mounting firmly to the chin,My necktie rich and modest, but asserted by a simple pin—(They will say: “But how his arms and legs are thin!”)Do I dareDisturb the universe?In a minute there is timeFor 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 fallBeneath the music from a farther room.So how should I presume?
And I have known the eyes already, known them all—The eyes that fix you in a formulated phrase,And when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin,When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall,Then how should I beginTo spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways?And how should I presume?
And I have known the arms already, known them all—Arms that are braceleted and white and bare(But in the lamplight, downed with light brown hair!)Is it perfume from a dressThat makes me so digress?Arms that lie along a table, or wrap about a shawl.And should I then presume?And how should I begin?
Shall I say, I have gone at dusk through narrow streetsAnd watched the smoke that rises from the pipesOf lonely men in shirt-sleeves, leaning out of windows? ...
I should have been a pair of ragged clawsScuttling across the floors of silent seas.
And the afternoon, the evening, sleeps so peacefully!Smoothed by long fingers,Asleep ... tired ... or it malingers,Stretched on the floor, here beside you and me.Should I, after tea and cakes and ices,Have the strength to force the moment to its crisis?But though I have wept and fasted, wept and prayed,Though I have seen my head (grown slightly bald) brought in upon a platter,I am no prophet—and here’s no great matter;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 the porcelain, 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 ballTo roll it toward 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 what I meant at all;That is not it, at all.”
And would it have been worth it, after all,Would it have been worth while,After the sunsets and the dooryards and the sprinkled streets,After the novels, after the teacups, after the skirts that trail along the floor—And this, and so much more?—It is impossible to say just what I mean!But as if a magic lantern threw the nerves in patterns on a screen:Would it have been worth whileIf one, settling a pillow or throwing off a shawl,And turning toward the window, should say:“That is not it at all,That is not what I meant, at all.”
No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be;Am an attendant lord, one that will doTo swell a progress, start a scene or two,Advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool,Deferential, glad to be of use,Politic, cautious, and meticulous;Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse;At times, indeed, almost ridiculous—Almost, at times, the Fool.
I grow old ... I grow old ...I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.
Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach?I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach.I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.
I do not think that they will sing to me.
I have seen them riding seaward on the wavesCombing the white hair of the waves blown backWhen the wind blows the water white and black.
We have lingered in the chambers of the seaBy sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brownTill human voices wake us, and we drown.
What it means, line by line
Lines 1 to 22: The speaker invites an unnamed companion on a visit but avoids explaining the important question behind it. The streets seem weary and threatening, and the comparison of evening to an unconscious patient makes the scene feel strangely helpless. Indoors, cultured conversation repeats. Outside, fog takes on a cat’s movements before settling into sleep.
Lines 23 to 48: Repeated assurances about having time become excuses for delay. Preparing a social face suggests that meeting others requires a performance. Prufrock imagines people criticizing his hair and thin body, making even a small decision feel enormous. The repeated questions and reversals show thought preventing action rather than preparing for it.
Lines 49 to 74: Prufrock describes familiar social routines as if he has already exhausted their possibilities. Coffee spoons make his life seem measured in tiny, repetitive portions. Other people’s eyes turn him into a pinned specimen, while women’s arms and perfume distract him. Unable to begin speaking, he imagines escaping human self-consciousness as a sea creature.
Lines 75 to 98: The peaceful evening seems to resist any decisive interruption. Prufrock imagines a crisis and briefly reaches for grand images of suffering, death, and revelation, then admits his fear. His imagined declaration ends not in understanding but in a woman’s correction. The contrast makes ordinary conversation feel dangerously exposing.
Lines 99 to 119: He rehearses the possibility of misunderstanding again, surrounding it with familiar rooms, clothing, books, and streets. His wish to display his inner life clashes with his inability to express it exactly. Rejecting the role of Hamlet, he assigns himself a cautious supporting part, mixing self-knowledge with harsh self-dismissal.
Lines 120 to 131: Thoughts of aging narrow into questions about clothing, hair, and eating a peach. The beach opens into a beautiful vision of mermaids, but Prufrock assumes their singing excludes him. The final shift from his individual voice to a shared underwater dream briefly suggests companionship, before human voices awaken the dreamers into drowning.
