"To her, the marriage brought no happiness. To me, it brought the state of mind out of which came The Waste Land."
"My nerves are bad tonight. Yes, bad. Stay with me.The Wasteland
"Speak to me. Why do you never speak. Speak.
"What are you thinking of? What thinking? What?
"I never know what you are thinking. Think."
I think we are in rats' alley
Where the dead men lost their bones.
"What is that noise?"
The wind under the door.
"What is that noise now? What is the wind doing?"
Nothing again nothing.
"You know nothing? Do you see nothing? Do you remember
He married Valerie, his secretary, when he was sixty-eight and she was thirty. He dedicated his only tender love poem to her.
A Dedication to My Wife
To whom I owe the leaping delight
That quickens my senses in our wakingtime
And the rhythm that governs the repose of our sleepingtime,
The breathing in unison
Of lovers whose bodies smell of each other
Who think the same thoughts without need of speech
And babble the same speech without need of meaning.
No peevish winter wind shall chill
No sullen tropic sun shall wither
The roses in the rose-garden which is ours and ours only
But this dedication is for others to read:
These are private words addressed to you in public.
I googled for a copy to paste and found it on a site of readings for weddings. The arcane modernist wrote a poem that anyone who has been in love can understand.
(A piece about the disappearing breed of literary widows here.)