"Infinitely Gentle, Infinitely Suffering" T.S Elliot.

Digging through an old anthology of mine, i found a T.S Elliot poem riddled with all of my half comprehensible notes. I dislike the first two parts, so here are parts 3 & 4. I bolded the parts that I wrote the most about. So this is, called "Preludes" by T.S Elliot. 

III.

You tossed a blanket from the bed 

You lay upon your back, and waited;

You dozed, and watched the night revealing

The thousand sordid images

Of which your soul was constituted;

They flickered against the ceiling.

And when all the world came back

And the light crept up between the shutters,

And you heard the sparrow in the gutters,

You had such a vision of the street

As the street hardly understands;

You curled papers from your hair

Or clasped the yellow soles of feet

In the palms of both soiled hands. 

IV.

His soul stretched tight against skies

That fade behind the city block,

Or trampled by insistent feet

At four and five and six o'clock;

And short square fingers stuffing pipes,

And evening newspapers, and eyes

Assured of certain uncertainties,

The conscience of a blackened street

Impatient to assume the world.

I am moved by fancies that are curled

Around these images and cling:

The notion of some infinitely gentle

Infinitely suffering thing.

Wipe your hands across your mouth, and laugh;

The worlds revolve like ancient women

Gathering fuel in vacant lots.