The transition between stanzas here is amazing - the dull, aimless but pleasant routine of the rich, then this intense, apocalyptic rhetoric. A violent contrast. And then the rhythms of that stanza "where the sun beats, /
And the dead tree gives no shelter, the cricket no relief, /
And the dry stone no sound of water."
I read, much of the night, and go south in the winter.
What are the roots that clutch, what branches grow
Out of this stony rubbish? Son of man,
You cannot say, or guess, for you know only
A heap of broken images, where the sun beats,
And the dead tree gives no shelter, the cricket no relief,
And the dry stone no sound of water.