"Rhapsody on a Windy Night" is an early poem by one of the 20th century's foremost literary figures, T.S. Eliot. It was written in 1911, around the time Eliot was studying at the Sorbonne in Paris. Often considered one of Eliot's most difficult poems, "Rhapsody" is above all an investigation into time, memory, and the mind. It follows its narrator wandering an urban street from midnight until 4:30 a.m. The world around the narrator seems at once familiar and strangely nightmarish, and a sense of futility and hopelessness invades the speaker's experience of the world as time goes on. The poem ends with its speaker arriving home with the prospect of the next day feeling like the "last twist of the knife"—perhaps the ultimate insult, to have to get ready for the day ahead despite the creeping sense that life lacks any purpose or meaning. The poem was first published in 1915 in Blast 2, the second and final edition of an influential literary magazine edited by Wyndham Lewis.
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1Twelve o'clock.
2Along the reaches of the street
3Held in a lunar synthesis,
4Whispering lunar incantations
5Dissolve the floors of memory
6And all its clear relations,
7Its divisions and precisions,
8Every street lamp that I pass
9Beats like a fatalistic drum,
10And through the spaces of the dark
11Midnight shakes the memory
12As a madman shakes a dead geranium.
13Half-past one,
14The street lamp sputtered,
15The street lamp muttered,
16The street lamp said, "Regard that woman
17Who hesitates towards you in the light of the door
18Which opens on her like a grin.
19You see the border of her dress
20Is torn and stained with sand,
21And you see the corner of her eye
22Twists like a crooked pin."
23The memory throws up high and dry
24A crowd of twisted things;
25A twisted branch upon the beach
26Eaten smooth, and polished
27As if the world gave up
28The secret of its skeleton,
29Stiff and white.
30A broken spring in a factory yard,
31Rust that clings to the form that the strength has left
32Hard and curled and ready to snap.
33Half-past two,
34The street lamp said,
35"Remark the cat which flattens itself in the gutter,
36Slips out its tongue
37And devours a morsel of rancid butter."
38So the hand of a child, automatic,
39Slipped out and pocketed a toy that was running along the quay.
40I could see nothing behind that child's eye.
41I have seen eyes in the street
42Trying to peer through lighted shutters,
43And a crab one afternoon in a pool,
44An old crab with barnacles on his back,
45Gripped the end of a stick which I held him.
46Half-past three,
47The lamp sputtered,
48The lamp muttered in the dark.
49The lamp hummed:
50"Regard the moon,
51La lune ne garde aucune rancune,
52She winks a feeble eye,
53She smiles into corners.
54She smoothes the hair of the grass.
55The moon has lost her memory.
56A washed-out smallpox cracks her face,
57Her hand twists a paper rose,
58That smells of dust and old Cologne,
59She is alone
60With all the old nocturnal smells
61That cross and cross across her brain."
62The reminiscence comes
63Of sunless dry geraniums
64And dust in crevices,
65Smells of chestnuts in the streets,
66And female smells in shuttered rooms,
67And cigarettes in corridors
68And cocktail smells in bars.
69The lamp said,
70"Four o'clock,
71Here is the number on the door.
72Memory!
73You have the key,
74The little lamp spreads a ring on the stair,
75Mount.
76The bed is open; the tooth-brush hangs on the wall,
77Put your shoes at the door, sleep, prepare for life."
78The last twist of the knife.
1Twelve o'clock.
2Along the reaches of the street
3Held in a lunar synthesis,
4Whispering lunar incantations
5Dissolve the floors of memory
6And all its clear relations,
7Its divisions and precisions,
8Every street lamp that I pass
9Beats like a fatalistic drum,
10And through the spaces of the dark
11Midnight shakes the memory
12As a madman shakes a dead geranium.
13Half-past one,
14The street lamp sputtered,
15The street lamp muttered,
16The street lamp said, "Regard that woman
17Who hesitates towards you in the light of the door
18Which opens on her like a grin.
19You see the border of her dress
20Is torn and stained with sand,
21And you see the corner of her eye
22Twists like a crooked pin."
23The memory throws up high and dry
24A crowd of twisted things;
25A twisted branch upon the beach
26Eaten smooth, and polished
27As if the world gave up
28The secret of its skeleton,
29Stiff and white.
30A broken spring in a factory yard,
31Rust that clings to the form that the strength has left
32Hard and curled and ready to snap.
33Half-past two,
34The street lamp said,
35"Remark the cat which flattens itself in the gutter,
36Slips out its tongue
37And devours a morsel of rancid butter."
38So the hand of a child, automatic,
39Slipped out and pocketed a toy that was running along the quay.
40I could see nothing behind that child's eye.
41I have seen eyes in the street
42Trying to peer through lighted shutters,
43And a crab one afternoon in a pool,
44An old crab with barnacles on his back,
45Gripped the end of a stick which I held him.
46Half-past three,
47The lamp sputtered,
48The lamp muttered in the dark.
49The lamp hummed:
50"Regard the moon,
51La lune ne garde aucune rancune,
52She winks a feeble eye,
53She smiles into corners.
54She smoothes the hair of the grass.
55The moon has lost her memory.
56A washed-out smallpox cracks her face,
57Her hand twists a paper rose,
58That smells of dust and old Cologne,
59She is alone
60With all the old nocturnal smells
61That cross and cross across her brain."
62The reminiscence comes
63Of sunless dry geraniums
64And dust in crevices,
65Smells of chestnuts in the streets,
66And female smells in shuttered rooms,
67And cigarettes in corridors
68And cocktail smells in bars.
69The lamp said,
70"Four o'clock,
71Here is the number on the door.
72Memory!
73You have the key,
74The little lamp spreads a ring on the stair,
75Mount.
76The bed is open; the tooth-brush hangs on the wall,
77Put your shoes at the door, sleep, prepare for life."
78The last twist of the knife.
Twelve o'clock.
Along the reaches of the street
Held in a lunar synthesis,
Whispering lunar incantations
Dissolve the floors of memory
And all its clear relations,
Its divisions and precisions,
Every street lamp that I pass
Beats like a fatalistic drum,
And through the spaces of the dark
Midnight shakes the memory
As a madman shakes a dead geranium.
Half-past one,
The street lamp sputtered,
The street lamp muttered,
The street lamp said, "Regard that woman
Who hesitates towards you in the light of the door
Which opens on her like a grin.
You see the border of her dress
Is torn and stained with sand,
And you see the corner of her eye
Twists like a crooked pin."
The memory throws up high and dry
A crowd of twisted things;
A twisted branch upon the beach
Eaten smooth, and polished
As if the world gave up
The secret of its skeleton,
Stiff and white.
A broken spring in a factory yard,
Rust that clings to the form that the strength has left
Hard and curled and ready to snap.
Half-past two,
The street lamp said,
"Remark the cat which flattens itself in the gutter,
Slips out its tongue
And devours a morsel of rancid butter."
So the hand of a child, automatic,
Slipped out and pocketed a toy that was running along the quay.
I could see nothing behind that child's eye.
I have seen eyes in the street
Trying to peer through lighted shutters,
And a crab one afternoon in a pool,
An old crab with barnacles on his back,
Gripped the end of a stick which I held him.
Half-past three,
The lamp sputtered,
The lamp muttered in the dark.
The lamp hummed:
"Regard the moon,
La lune ne garde aucune rancune,
She winks a feeble eye,
She smiles into corners.
She smoothes the hair of the grass.
The moon has lost her memory.
A washed-out smallpox cracks her face,
Her hand twists a paper rose,
That smells of dust and old Cologne,
She is alone
With all the old nocturnal smells
That cross and cross across her brain."
The reminiscence comes
Of sunless dry geraniums
And dust in crevices,
Smells of chestnuts in the streets,
And female smells in shuttered rooms,
And cigarettes in corridors
And cocktail smells in bars.
The lamp said,
"Four o'clock,
Here is the number on the door.
Memory!
You have the key,
The little lamp spreads a ring on the stair,
Mount.
The bed is open; the tooth-brush hangs on the wall,
Put your shoes at the door, sleep, prepare for life."
The last twist of the knife.
Select any word below to get its definition in the context of the poem. The words are listed in the order in which they appear in the poem.
An Animation of the Poem — A quirky and interesting visual interpretation of Eliot's poem.
Blast 2 — A PDF copy of the short-lived but influential Blast magazine, in which the poem first appeared.
"Memory" in Cats — A clip from the Andrew Lloyd-Webber musical, Cats, in which the poem is reinterpreted as a song.
Other Poems and Related Essays — A wide range of resources, featuring work by and about T.S. Eliot.
A Reading by Jeremy Irons — A reading of the poem by Jeremy Irons, set to music as part of as BBC series.