JANE, Jane, <br />Tall as a crane, <br />The morning light creaks down again; <br /> <br />Comb your cockscomb-ragged hair, <br />Jane, Jane, come down the stair. <br /> <br />Each dull blunt wooden stalactite <br />Of rain creaks, hardened by the light, <br /> <br />Sounding like an overtone <br />From some lonely world unknown. <br /> <br />But the creaking empty light <br />Will never harden into sight, <br /> <br />Will never penetrate your brain <br />With overtones like the blunt rain. <br /> <br />The light would show (if it could harden) <br />Eternities of kitchen garden, <br /> <br />Cockscomb flowers that none will pluck, <br />And wooden flowers that 'gin to cluck. <br /> <br />In the kitchen you must light <br />Flames as staring, red and white, <br /> <br />As carrots or as turnips shining <br />Where the cold dawn light lies whining. <br /> <br />Cockscomb hair on the cold wind <br />Hangs limp, turns the milk's weak mind . . . <br /> <br />Jane, Jane, <br />Tall as a crane, <br />The morning light creaks down again!<br /><br />Dame Edith Louisa Sitwell<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/aubade-3/
