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. Only

There is shadow under this red rock,

(Come in under the shadow of this red rock),

And I will show you something different from either

Your shadow in the morning striding behind you

Or your shadow at evening rising to meet you;

I will show you fear in a handful of dust.

-- T.S. Eliot

"The Waste Land"

If there pushed any ragged thistle-stalk

Above its mates, the head was chopped; the bents

Were jealous else. What made those holes and rents

In the dock's hearth swarth leaves, bruised as to balk

All hop of greenness? 'tis a brute must walk

Pashing their life out, with a brute's intents.

-- Robert Browning

"Childe Roland to the Dark Tower Came"

"What river is it?" enquired Millicent idly.

"It's only a stream. Well, perhaps a little more than that. It's called the Waste."

"Is it really?"

"Yes," said Winifred, "it is."

-- Robert Aickman

"Hand in Glove"