AuthorsDen.com   Join (free) | Login  

   Your Online Literary Community! 
 Popular! Books, Stories, Articles, Poetry
Where Authors and Readers come together!

Signed Bookstore | Authors | Books | Stories | Articles | Poetry | Blogs | News | Events | Reviews | Videos | Success | Gold Members | Testimonials

Featured Authors:  Frank Ryan, iJoAnna Drelleshak, iPeggy Schmuldt, iW. Craig Reed, iJanice Scott, iTuchy (Carl) Palmieri, iDilip Dahanukar, i

 
Home > Author > William A Huff
 
William A Huff

· Become a Fan
· Contact author

· Add to My Library
· Share with a friend
·
Member Since: May, 2012

William A Huff, click here to update your pages on AuthorsDen.






  William A Huff           

Share  Save   [ Subscribe]        

Just a simple man, a writer, playwright, artist, sculptor...mechanic, who deeply loves, and is loved by one very, very special woman..I'm am truly the luckiest man who will ever live... " I should have been a pair of ragged claws Scuttling across the floors of silent seas." t.s. eliot


Background Information

The Love Song of J Alfred Prufrock


          S'io credessi che mia risposta fosse
          A persona che mai tornasse al mondo,
          Questa fiamma staria senza più scosse.
          Ma per ciò che giammai di questo fondo
          Non tornò viva alcun, s'i'odo il vero,
          Senza tema d'infamia ti rispondo. *


   Let us go then, you and I,
When the evening is spread out against the sky
Like a patient etherised 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 out visit.


   In the room the women come and go
Talking 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 time
For the yellow smoke that slides along the street
Rubbing its back upon the window-panes;
There will be time, there will be time
To 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 hands
That 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 go
Talking of Michelangelo.

   And indeed there will be time
To 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 legs and arms are thin!')
Do I dare
Disturb the universe?
In a minute there is 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 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 dress
That 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 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.

          .   .   .   .   .   .

   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 ball
To 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 while
If one, settling a pillow 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 attendent lord, one that will do
To 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.

   Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare 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 waves
Combing the white hair of the waves blown back
When the wind blows the water white and black.

We 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.


******************************************

T S Eliot  (1888-1965)


Birth Place
Taft, CA USA


Featured Book
Cheyenne Legacy
by Ken Coleman

Will Ryder sets out in the company of Ruth the crazy but charismatic woman who has drawn him to her like a magnet, in search of a gang of criminals who robbed and left hi..  
BookAds by Silver
Gold and Platinum Members


Featured Book
Doing Max Vinyl (An Annie Ogden Mystery)
by Frederick Brooke

An absurd journey into the heart of modern corporate lunacy, Doing Max Vinyl features a businessman who runs afoul of his environmentalist girlfriend, his scorned ex-wife..  
BookAds by Silver
Gold and Platinum Members





Authors alphabetically: A B C D E F G H I J K L M N O P Q R S T U V W X Y Z

Featured Authors | New to AuthorsDen? | Add AuthorsDen to your Site
Share AD with your friends | Need Help? | About us


Problem with this page?   Report it to AuthorsDen
AuthorsDen, Inc. All rights reserved.