Скачать с ютуб Poetry: "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock" by T.S. Eliot (read by Tom Hiddleston) (12/11) в хорошем качестве

Poetry: "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock" by T.S. Eliot (read by Tom Hiddleston) (12/11)

You can also listen to the same poem from: Sir Anthony Hopkins:    • Poetry: "The Love Song Of J. Alfred P...   Xander Berkeley:    • Poetry: "The Love Song of J. Alfred P...   Jeremy Irons:    • "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock"...   Sir Alec Guinness:    • "The Love Song Of J. Alfred Prufrock"...   What do you think about the different interpretations? Leave your comment below. • ────────────────────────────────── • "Next, is one of the 20th century’s most noted poets, T. S. Eliot, born in Missouri, USA, who moved to England at the age of 25. Many of TS Eliot’s works contains historical literary reference and this is a poem that comes with an epigraph: from Dante’s Inferno, Dante wrote this first paragraph in Italian, hereby presented with an English translation: "If I but thought that my response were made to one perhaps returning to the world, this tongue of flame would cease to flicker. But since, up from these depths, no one has yet returned alive, if what I hear is true, I answer without fear of being shamed." Dante writes about being trapped and a concern with self-image and reputation - which T.S Eliot channels as the theme of his own poem." Music: Shoreline Memory by Philip Sheppard (   • Shoreline Memory  ) "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock" by T. S. Eliot 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, 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 arms and legs 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 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 begin To 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 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. [ The rest of the poem can be read here: https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poet...] Source: Ximalaya FM DISCLAIMER: This is a non-monetized channel. No copyright infringement intended. I created/edited this video for entertainment and educational purpose only. I do not own nor claim to own anything in this video. The videos/audios/photos are property of their rightful owners. All credit goes to the owners of all the materials used in this video. #poetry #poem #actorsreadingpoetry