The Fire Sermon, Part 1
๐ต 2518 characters
โฑ๏ธ 8:03 duration
๐ ID: 24069516
๐ Lyrics
The Fire Sermon
The river's tent is broken: the last fingers of leaf
Clutch and sink into the wet bank. The wind
Crosses the brown land, unheard. The nymphs are departed.
Sweet Thames, run softly, till I end my song.
The river bears no empty bottles, sandwich papers,
Silk handkerchiefs, cardboard boxes, cigarette ends
Or other testimony of summer nights. The nymphs are departed.
And their friends, the loitering heirs of City directors;
Departed, have left no addresses.
By the waters of Leman I sat down and wept . . .
Sweet Thames, run softly till I end my song,
Sweet Thames, run softly, for I speak not loud or long.
But at my back in a cold blast I hear
The rattle of the bones, and chuckle spread from ear to ear.
A rat crept softly through the vegetation
Dragging its slimy belly on the bank
While I was fishing in the dull canal
On a winter evening round behind the gashouse
Musing upon the king my brother's wreck
And on the king my father's death before him.
White bodies naked on the low damp ground
And bones cast in a little low dry garret,
Rattled by the rat's foot only, year to year.
But at my back from time to time I hear
The sound of horns and motors, which shall bring
Sweeney to Mrs. Porter in the spring.
O the moon shone bright on Mrs. Porter
And on her daughter
They wash their feet in soda water
Et O ces voix d'enfants, chantant dans la coupole!
Twit twit twit
Jug jug jug jug jug jug
So rudely forc'd.
Tereu
Unreal City
Under the brown fog of a winter noon
Mr. Eugenides, the Smyrna merchant
Unshaven, with a pocket full of currants
C.i.f. London: documents at sight,
Asked me in demotic French
To luncheon at the Cannon Street Hotel
Followed by a weekend at the Metropole.
At the violet hour, when the eyes and back
Turn upward from the desk, when the human engine waits
Like a taxi throbbing waiting,
I Tiresias, though blind, throbbing between two lives,
Old man with wrinkled female breasts, can see
At the violet hour, the evening hour that strives
Homeward, and brings the sailor home from sea,
The typist home at teatime, clears her breakfast, lights
Her stove, and lays out food in tins.
Out of the window perilously spread
Her drying combinations touched by the sun's last rays,
On the divan are piled (at night her bed)
Stockings, slippers, camisoles, and stays.
I Tiresias, old man with wrinkled dugs
Perceived the scene, and foretold the rest--
I too awaited the expected guest.
He, the young man carbuncular, arrives,
A small house agent's clerk, with one bold stare,
The river's tent is broken: the last fingers of leaf
Clutch and sink into the wet bank. The wind
Crosses the brown land, unheard. The nymphs are departed.
Sweet Thames, run softly, till I end my song.
The river bears no empty bottles, sandwich papers,
Silk handkerchiefs, cardboard boxes, cigarette ends
Or other testimony of summer nights. The nymphs are departed.
And their friends, the loitering heirs of City directors;
Departed, have left no addresses.
By the waters of Leman I sat down and wept . . .
Sweet Thames, run softly till I end my song,
Sweet Thames, run softly, for I speak not loud or long.
But at my back in a cold blast I hear
The rattle of the bones, and chuckle spread from ear to ear.
A rat crept softly through the vegetation
Dragging its slimy belly on the bank
While I was fishing in the dull canal
On a winter evening round behind the gashouse
Musing upon the king my brother's wreck
And on the king my father's death before him.
White bodies naked on the low damp ground
And bones cast in a little low dry garret,
Rattled by the rat's foot only, year to year.
But at my back from time to time I hear
The sound of horns and motors, which shall bring
Sweeney to Mrs. Porter in the spring.
O the moon shone bright on Mrs. Porter
And on her daughter
They wash their feet in soda water
Et O ces voix d'enfants, chantant dans la coupole!
Twit twit twit
Jug jug jug jug jug jug
So rudely forc'd.
Tereu
Unreal City
Under the brown fog of a winter noon
Mr. Eugenides, the Smyrna merchant
Unshaven, with a pocket full of currants
C.i.f. London: documents at sight,
Asked me in demotic French
To luncheon at the Cannon Street Hotel
Followed by a weekend at the Metropole.
At the violet hour, when the eyes and back
Turn upward from the desk, when the human engine waits
Like a taxi throbbing waiting,
I Tiresias, though blind, throbbing between two lives,
Old man with wrinkled female breasts, can see
At the violet hour, the evening hour that strives
Homeward, and brings the sailor home from sea,
The typist home at teatime, clears her breakfast, lights
Her stove, and lays out food in tins.
Out of the window perilously spread
Her drying combinations touched by the sun's last rays,
On the divan are piled (at night her bed)
Stockings, slippers, camisoles, and stays.
I Tiresias, old man with wrinkled dugs
Perceived the scene, and foretold the rest--
I too awaited the expected guest.
He, the young man carbuncular, arrives,
A small house agent's clerk, with one bold stare,
โฑ๏ธ Synced Lyrics
[01:25.25]The Fire Sermon
[01:27.02]
[01:28.66] The river's tent is broken: the last fingers of leaf
[01:34.63]Clutch and sink into the wet bank. The wind
[01:38.38]Crosses the brown land, unheard. The nymphs are departed.
[01:46.40]Sweet Thames, run softly, till I end my song.
[01:52.64]The river bears no empty bottles, sandwich papers,
[01:58.46]Silk handkerchiefs, cardboard boxes, cigarette ends
[02:03.16]Or other testimony of summer nights. The nymphs are departed.
[02:09.80]And their friends, the loitering heirs of City directors;
[02:19.50]Departed, have left no addresses.
[02:23.44]By the waters of Leman I sat down and wept . . .
[02:27.58]Sweet Thames, run softly till I end my song,
[02:31.46]Sweet Thames, run softly, for I speak not loud or long.
[02:36.83]But at my back in a cold blast I hear
[02:39.90]The rattle of the bones, and chuckle spread from ear to ear.
[02:44.50]
[02:45.13]A rat crept softly through the vegetation
[02:49.09]Dragging its slimy belly on the bank
[02:52.25]While I was fishing in the dull canal
[02:55.57]On a winter evening round behind the gashouse
[02:58.99]Musing upon the king my brother's wreck
[03:01.98]And on the king my father's death before him.
[03:06.21]White bodies naked on the low damp ground
[03:10.10]And bones cast in a little low dry garret,
[03:14.17]Rattled by the rat's foot only, year to year.
[03:18.97]But at my back from time to time I hear
[03:22.18]The sound of horns and motors, which shall bring
[03:26.50]Sweeney to Mrs. Porter in the spring.
[03:30.58]O the moon shone bright on Mrs. Porter
[03:33.63]And on her daughter
[03:35.28]They wash their feet in soda water
[03:38.95]Et O ces voix d'enfants, chantant dans la coupole!
[03:45.44]
[03:57.42]Twit twit twit
[04:00.30]Jug jug jug jug jug jug
[04:03.36]So rudely forc'd.
[04:06.28]Tereu
[04:09.24]
[05:29.50]Unreal City
[05:32.46]Under the brown fog of a winter noon
[05:35.45]Mr. Eugenides, the Smyrna merchant
[05:38.42]Unshaven, with a pocket full of currants
[05:41.25]C.i.f. London: documents at sight,
[05:44.21]Asked me in demotic French
[05:47.15]To luncheon at the Cannon Street Hotel
[05:50.32]Followed by a weekend at the Metropole.
[05:54.78]
[05:55.77]At the violet hour, when the eyes and back
[05:58.64]Turn upward from the desk, when the human engine waits
[06:01.93]Like a taxi throb-
[06:03.54]Like a taxi throb-
[06:05.03]Like a taxi throb-
[06:06.53]Like a taxi throbbing waiting,
[06:09.39]I Tiresias, though blind, throbbing between two lives,
[06:16.33]Old man with wrinkled female breasts,
[06:43.78]can see
[06:44.82]At the violet hour, the evening hour that strives
[06:48.96]Homeward, and brings the sailor home from-
[06:52.69]and brings the sailor home from sea,
[06:55.47]The typist home at teatime, clears her breakfast, lights
[07:00.60]Her stove, and lays out food in tins.
[07:04.59]Out of the window perilously spread
[07:07.35]Her drying combinations touched by the sun's last rays,
[07:11.26]drying combinations touched by
[07:13.45]On the divan are piled (at night her bed)
[07:16.57]Stockings, slippers, camisoles, and stays.
[07:20.47]I Tiresias, old man with wrinkled dugs
[07:25.20]Perceived the scene, and foretold the rest--
[07:29.69]I too awaited the expected guest.
[07:32.44]He, the young man carbuncular, arrives,
[07:37.48]A small house agent's clerk, with one bold stare,
[01:27.02]
[01:28.66] The river's tent is broken: the last fingers of leaf
[01:34.63]Clutch and sink into the wet bank. The wind
[01:38.38]Crosses the brown land, unheard. The nymphs are departed.
[01:46.40]Sweet Thames, run softly, till I end my song.
[01:52.64]The river bears no empty bottles, sandwich papers,
[01:58.46]Silk handkerchiefs, cardboard boxes, cigarette ends
[02:03.16]Or other testimony of summer nights. The nymphs are departed.
[02:09.80]And their friends, the loitering heirs of City directors;
[02:19.50]Departed, have left no addresses.
[02:23.44]By the waters of Leman I sat down and wept . . .
[02:27.58]Sweet Thames, run softly till I end my song,
[02:31.46]Sweet Thames, run softly, for I speak not loud or long.
[02:36.83]But at my back in a cold blast I hear
[02:39.90]The rattle of the bones, and chuckle spread from ear to ear.
[02:44.50]
[02:45.13]A rat crept softly through the vegetation
[02:49.09]Dragging its slimy belly on the bank
[02:52.25]While I was fishing in the dull canal
[02:55.57]On a winter evening round behind the gashouse
[02:58.99]Musing upon the king my brother's wreck
[03:01.98]And on the king my father's death before him.
[03:06.21]White bodies naked on the low damp ground
[03:10.10]And bones cast in a little low dry garret,
[03:14.17]Rattled by the rat's foot only, year to year.
[03:18.97]But at my back from time to time I hear
[03:22.18]The sound of horns and motors, which shall bring
[03:26.50]Sweeney to Mrs. Porter in the spring.
[03:30.58]O the moon shone bright on Mrs. Porter
[03:33.63]And on her daughter
[03:35.28]They wash their feet in soda water
[03:38.95]Et O ces voix d'enfants, chantant dans la coupole!
[03:45.44]
[03:57.42]Twit twit twit
[04:00.30]Jug jug jug jug jug jug
[04:03.36]So rudely forc'd.
[04:06.28]Tereu
[04:09.24]
[05:29.50]Unreal City
[05:32.46]Under the brown fog of a winter noon
[05:35.45]Mr. Eugenides, the Smyrna merchant
[05:38.42]Unshaven, with a pocket full of currants
[05:41.25]C.i.f. London: documents at sight,
[05:44.21]Asked me in demotic French
[05:47.15]To luncheon at the Cannon Street Hotel
[05:50.32]Followed by a weekend at the Metropole.
[05:54.78]
[05:55.77]At the violet hour, when the eyes and back
[05:58.64]Turn upward from the desk, when the human engine waits
[06:01.93]Like a taxi throb-
[06:03.54]Like a taxi throb-
[06:05.03]Like a taxi throb-
[06:06.53]Like a taxi throbbing waiting,
[06:09.39]I Tiresias, though blind, throbbing between two lives,
[06:16.33]Old man with wrinkled female breasts,
[06:43.78]can see
[06:44.82]At the violet hour, the evening hour that strives
[06:48.96]Homeward, and brings the sailor home from-
[06:52.69]and brings the sailor home from sea,
[06:55.47]The typist home at teatime, clears her breakfast, lights
[07:00.60]Her stove, and lays out food in tins.
[07:04.59]Out of the window perilously spread
[07:07.35]Her drying combinations touched by the sun's last rays,
[07:11.26]drying combinations touched by
[07:13.45]On the divan are piled (at night her bed)
[07:16.57]Stockings, slippers, camisoles, and stays.
[07:20.47]I Tiresias, old man with wrinkled dugs
[07:25.20]Perceived the scene, and foretold the rest--
[07:29.69]I too awaited the expected guest.
[07:32.44]He, the young man carbuncular, arrives,
[07:37.48]A small house agent's clerk, with one bold stare,