Out of this stony rubbish? Son of man,
You cannot say, or guess, for you know only
A heap of broken images, where the sun beats,
And the dead tree gives no shelter, the cricket no relief,
And the dry stone no sound of water. Only
There is shadow under this red rock,
(Come in under the shadow of this red rock),
And I will show you something different from either
Your shadow at the morning striding behind you
Or your shadow at the evening rising to meet you;
I will show you fear in a handful of dust.
The Waste Land, I. The Burial of the Dead
