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.'<br /><br />Dame Edith Louisa Sitwell<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/solo-for-ear-trumpet/
