DOI article:
Turner, Walter J.: Love
DOI article:Binns, Henry Bryan: Storm music
DOI article:Sitwell, Edith: The doll
DOI Page / Citation link: https://doi.org/10.11588/diglit.29343#0034
Desire darkens, like a trellis abandoned by a
rose,
A winter sun is shining.
The passing clouds trail their cold shadows
Drooping a festoon of ghostly blooms.
Where is the rose that is vanished?
Neither Morning nor yet the Evening
Look upon her face.
I lie at the foot of the trellis,
Earth smouldering slowly in the sun.
Behold the framework of dead imagination!
And, a thin faint haze in the landscape,
Life smoking subtly in the brain!
Black and myriad the dead sticks of desire,
And the Void bloomless upon the trellis!
Out of the darkness, under the mantling sky,
Dawn has brought forth a pale clump of
blossom.
Through all outspread Imagination
A slender life is creeping,
Green hres trailing on the cold black sky;
White maidens of earth leap up dancing,
And the Rose has come again upon the
trellis.
W. J. TURNER
STORM MUSIC
HOM is the body of music a body
for?—
From the ivory and ebon crowd
of keys
That hammer the taut wire, her
quick, twin hands—
And with the freeing, stopping pedals, her feet
Unhesitating—search out, call clear out
Thewild music that—as after a storm
The morrow’s tide, howso placid its face—
Heaves with the passionate working of the sea.
Whom is the wild music a body for?—
Fierceness of joy—defiant, rebellious power—
Counterpointing her concentrated calm
Face, as she takes the signals of the score.
Outspread there!—Schumann had not written it
Nor she, in his black and white, discovered it:
But through thetumult of chords full-throated,
through
The ebon and ivory play, the hold and loose
Of thepedals, throughher fingers and feet,that
world-heave of the rebel, pulse of the
god Pan, takes
Control of the great-winged body of flight,
and is
The exultancy that still, after the storm,
Works in the pause of the sea, challenging us
Who in the pause of her playing, exultant stand.
HENRY BRYAN BINNS
THE DOLL
F cold grew visible again,
We should see bell-flowers onthe
plain
With shivering stalks, as white as-
kings
In trembling ermine. Each one
A little tune for vespers, matins, [rings^
Beneath the polar sky’s red satins:
(The cold is but the shivering
Of the white flower-bells as they ring).
And Madame A . . . the elegante,
And Madame X, the elephant,
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rose,
A winter sun is shining.
The passing clouds trail their cold shadows
Drooping a festoon of ghostly blooms.
Where is the rose that is vanished?
Neither Morning nor yet the Evening
Look upon her face.
I lie at the foot of the trellis,
Earth smouldering slowly in the sun.
Behold the framework of dead imagination!
And, a thin faint haze in the landscape,
Life smoking subtly in the brain!
Black and myriad the dead sticks of desire,
And the Void bloomless upon the trellis!
Out of the darkness, under the mantling sky,
Dawn has brought forth a pale clump of
blossom.
Through all outspread Imagination
A slender life is creeping,
Green hres trailing on the cold black sky;
White maidens of earth leap up dancing,
And the Rose has come again upon the
trellis.
W. J. TURNER
STORM MUSIC
HOM is the body of music a body
for?—
From the ivory and ebon crowd
of keys
That hammer the taut wire, her
quick, twin hands—
And with the freeing, stopping pedals, her feet
Unhesitating—search out, call clear out
Thewild music that—as after a storm
The morrow’s tide, howso placid its face—
Heaves with the passionate working of the sea.
Whom is the wild music a body for?—
Fierceness of joy—defiant, rebellious power—
Counterpointing her concentrated calm
Face, as she takes the signals of the score.
Outspread there!—Schumann had not written it
Nor she, in his black and white, discovered it:
But through thetumult of chords full-throated,
through
The ebon and ivory play, the hold and loose
Of thepedals, throughher fingers and feet,that
world-heave of the rebel, pulse of the
god Pan, takes
Control of the great-winged body of flight,
and is
The exultancy that still, after the storm,
Works in the pause of the sea, challenging us
Who in the pause of her playing, exultant stand.
HENRY BRYAN BINNS
THE DOLL
F cold grew visible again,
We should see bell-flowers onthe
plain
With shivering stalks, as white as-
kings
In trembling ermine. Each one
A little tune for vespers, matins, [rings^
Beneath the polar sky’s red satins:
(The cold is but the shivering
Of the white flower-bells as they ring).
And Madame A . . . the elegante,
And Madame X, the elephant,
30