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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=360262" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Solo For Ear-Trumpet</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=360262" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">The carriage brushes through the bright<br>Leaves (violent jets from life to light);<br>Strong polished speed is plunging, heaves<br>Between the showers of bright hot leaves<br>The window-glasses glaze our faces<br>And jar them to the very basis — <br>But they could never put a polish<br>Upon my manners or abolish<br>My most distinct disinclination<br>For calling on a rich relation!<br>In her house — (bulwark built between<br>The life man lives and visions seen) — <br>The sunlight hiccups white as chalk,<br>Grown drunk with emptiness of talk,<br>And silence hisses like a snake — <br>Invertebrate and rattling ache….<br>Then suddenly Eternity<br>Drowns all the houses like a sea<br>And down the street the Trump of Doom<br>Blares madly — shakes the drawing-room<br>Where raw-edged shadows sting forlorn<br>As dank dark nettles. Down the horn<br>Of her ear-trumpet I convey<br>The news that 'It is Judgment Day!'<br>'Speak louder: I don't catch, my dear.'<br>I roared: 'It is the Trump we hear!'<br>'The What?' 'THE TRUMP!' 'I shall complain!<br>…. the boy-scouts practising again.'</a></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><a href="http://poems.citatepedia.com/">poem</a> by <strong><a rel="author" href="http://authors.citatepedia.com/by.php?a=Dame+Edith+Louisa+Sitwell">Dame Edith Louisa Sitwell</a></strong></div>