Fireworks
By Edith Sitwell
Pink faces—(worlds or flowers or seas or stars),
You all alike are patterned with hot bars
Of coloured light; and falling where I stand,
The sharp and rainbow splinters from the band
Seem fireworks, splinters of the Infinite—
(Glitter of leaves the echoes). And the night
Will weld this dust of bright Infinity
To forms that we may touch and call and see:—
Pink pyramids of faces: tulip-trees
Spilling night perfumes on the terraces.
The music, blond airs waving like a sea
Draws in its vortex of immensity
The new-awakened flower-strange hair and eyes
Of crowds beneath the floating summer skies.
And, ’gainst the silk pavilions of the sea
I watch the people move incessantly
Vibrating, petals blown from flower-hued stars
Beneath the music-fireworks’ waving bars;
So all seems indivisible, at one:
The flow of hair, the flowers, the seas that run,—
A coloured floating music of the night
Through the pavilions of the Infinite.
--------
Tuesday was less traumatic than Monday around here, though Effie still won't go in the bedroom -- apparently she thinks something she did set off the fire alarm and she doesn't want to risk it happening again. It was an overcast morning during which I moved furniture around the second bedroom in anticipation of ordering a couch, then it turned into a gorgeous afternoon during which we walked to the beach and saw ducklings and nutria.
My Voyager group watched Picard's third episode of the third season (I don't recognize this Crusher or Picard and I barely recognize this Worf), and now that the Mariners have managed to blow an extra-innings game to the Nationals, we're watching the first episode of the second season of Strange New Worlds. Here are some photos from Boom City, where Tulalip tribal members are exempt from state restrictions on selling fireworks:
No comments:
Post a Comment