Form: a quarterly of the arts (N.S. 1.1921/1922)

Walked down the lengthy avenue
Carrying their missals; and they knew

The point-lace hanging from the trees
Delicately laughed at these,

Knowing they’d find no angels there
With their apple-curling hair—

Because the angels pulled the lapel
Of the priest’s robe, left the chapel

And with my doll and me in heaven
Hear the nursery clock strike seven.

The angels and myself between us
We break their doll the lady Venus

Whose curls seem petalled orange-flowers
From heaven’s tree; (those perfumed showers
Fall like soft music in the mind).

Seeing my doll they are unkind
To all their toys; they break with joy
The bird-soft bricks that builded Troy,—

Laugh at the thought that it could matter . .
The angels feet like bird-feet patter

Across the floor; they leave their needle
Sticking in their samplers, wheedle

Me to let them wash my daughter
Until her face is clear as water,

Her curls like bell-flowers one can see
At Easter, jangling on a tree.

• • • •

UT nurse is wandering on the
plain,

Midst cold grown visible
again;

She looks for me, and as she
On toes the cold has turned to stalks

walks

Mid shrill steel grasses that dissemble
The cold (bell-flowers that jangle, tremble),
The angels nod their small heads, say:

“It’s time we were in bed, stopped play.”

Yet still the angels overhead

Play with my doll, though I’m in bed!

EDITH SITWELL

AAOS AWAKING

WOODCUX BY AUSTIN O. SPARE

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