I just discovered a set of Eliot poems online, written during his college years, that are apparently not collected in even the most exhaustive collections. This makes sense: they’re mostly pretty bad. It’s interesting, though, to read the little poem “Spleen” (probably the best of the lot) —
Sunday: this satisfied procession
Of definite Sunday faces;
Bonnets, silk hats, and conscious graces
In repetition that displaces
Your mental self-possession
By this unwarranted digression.Evening, lights, and tea!
Children and cats in the alley;
Dejection unable to rally
Against this dull conspiracy.
And Life, a little bald and gray,
Languid, fastidious, and bland,
Waits, hat and gloves in hand,
Punctilious of tie and suit
(Somewhat impatient of delay)
On the doorstep of the Absolute.
— and to think that it became Prufrock.
