Solo For Ear-Trumpet The carriage brushes through the brightLeaves (violent jets from life to light);Strong polished speed is plunging, heavesBetween the showers of bright hot leavesThe window-glasses glaze our facesAnd jar them to the very basis But they could never put a polishUpon my manners or abolishMy most distinct disinclinationFor calling on a rich relation!In her house (bulwark built betweenThe life man lives and visions seen) The sunlight hiccups white as chalk,Grown drunk with emptiness of talk,And silence hisses like a snake Invertebrate and rattling ache.Then suddenly EternityDrowns all the houses like a seaAnd down the street the Trump of DoomBlares madly shakes the drawing-roomWhere raw-edged shadows sting forlornAs dank dark nettles. Down the hornOf her ear-trumpet I conveyThe news that 'It is Judgment Day!''Speak louder: I don't catch, my dear.'I roared: 'It is the Trump we hear!''The What?' 'THE TRUMP!' 'I shall complain!. the boy-scouts practising again.
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About Edith Sitwell
Edith Sitwell was a 19th-century British poet and critic. Dame Edith Louisa Sitwell was a British poet and critic and the eldest of the three literary Sitwells. She reacted badly to her eccentric, unloving parents and lived much of her life with her governess. Read more on Wikipedia →