The Journey of the Magi

A cold coming we had of it,journey_magi-ms
Just the worst time of the year
For a journey, and such a long journey:
The ways deep and the weather sharp,
The very dead of winter.
And the camels galled, sorefooted, refractory,
Lying down in the melting snow.
There were times we regretted
The summer palaces on slopes, the terraces,
And the silken girls bringing sherbet.
Then the camel men cursing and grumbling
and running away, and wanting their liquor and women,
And the night-fires going out, and the lack of shelters,
And the cities hostile and the towns unfriendly
And the villages dirty and charging high prices:
A hard time we had of it.
At the end we preferred to travel all night,
Sleeping in snatches,
With the voices singing in our ears, saying
That this was all folly.

Then at dawn we came down to a temperate valley,
Wet, below the snow line, smelling of vegetation;
With a running stream and a water-mill beating the darkness,
And three trees on the low sky,
And an old white horse galloped away in the meadow.
Then we came to a tavern with vine-leaves over the lintel,
Six hands at an open door dicing for pieces of silver,
And feet kicking the empty wine-skins.
But there was no information, and so we continued
And arriving at evening, not a moment too soonjourney_magi-crop
Finding the place; it was (you might say) satisfactory.

All this was a long time ago, I remember,
And I would do it again, but set down
This set down
This: were we led all that way for
Birth or Death? There was a Birth, certainly
We had evidence and no doubt. I had seen birth and death,
But had thought they were different; this Birth was
Hard and bitter agony for us, like Death, our death.
We returned to our places, these Kingdoms,
But no longer at ease here, in the old dispensation,
With an alien people clutching their gods.
I should be glad of another death.

This poem is in the public domain.

 

 

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About T.S. Eliot

Thomas Stearns Eliot was born on September 26, 1888 in St. Louis, Missouri. He attended prominent academies through his youth, eventually getting accepted into Harvard, and later the Sorbonne in Paris, France. Due to the start of World War I he was unable to finish his PhD, and soon found himself living in London, married, and working as a bank clerk. It was during this time that Eliot threw himself into his writing, and became known as “one of the most daring innovators of twentieth century poetry”. He also wrote plays and popular essays. Eliot went on to found and edit a literary journal for several years, and left his bank job for a position at Faber & Faber Publishers, where he worked with young poets. He received the Nobel Prize in Literature in 1948. Eliot, who was a heavy smoker for many years, died of emphysema on January 4, 1965.
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