T. S. Eliot, dead fifty years ago, is said to be difficult. No doubt. There's no way I could reason out The Waste Land or Four Quartets and I'm not tempted to try. But, as a non-poetic gent, I recognise passages that are unmistakable poetry. Ignoring April, the world's end, eating peaches, and the state of the camels here's my mini bouquet.
The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes,
The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes
Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening.
Prufrock (The unexpected; read the bold repetition aloud)
I have seen them riding seaward on the waves
Combing the white hair of the waves blown back
When the wind blows the water white and black.
Prufrock (Hear the waves' ebb and flow)
You will see me any morning in the park
Reading the comics and the sporting page
Particularly I remark
An English countess goes upon the stage
A Greek was murdered at a Polish dance.
Another bank defaulter has confessed.
Portrait of a Lady (Banality becomes something else)
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.
Rhapsody on a Windy Night (Ah, the observation)
Now when she died there was silence in heaven
And silence at her end of the street.
Aunt Helen (Do you need any more?)
Those with a thousand small deliberations
Protract the profit of their chilled delirium
Excite the membrane, when the sense has cooled,
Gerontion (Look, he does hard words too)
Jackknifes upward at the knees
Then straightens out from heel to hip
Sweeney Erect (Seen many times, but not quite like this)