After about a good half -hour of trying to read the poems presented in “The Wasteland” I found it extremely difficult to become interested in them, let alone finding something to write about. At the beginning of each attempt I would find myself intrigued with the rhyming scheme often employed by Eliot through out these specific pieces of work but
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"With a wicked pack of cards. Here, said she,
Is your card, the drowned Phoenician Sailor,
(Those are pearls that were his eyes. Look!)"
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