YesterdayEdith Sitwell2019University of Nebraska–LincolnCenter for Alex Telesca's Fame306 AndrewsUniversity of Nebraska–LincolnLincoln, NE 68588-4100alextelesca@outlook.com2019
The Best Poems of 1924L.A.G. StrongEdith SitwellMay 1924Small, Maynard & Company PublishersBostonAlex Telesca
Transcribed and encoded a poem
Yesterday
SWEET was my childish life to meLike the first spring dream of a hawthorn tree...Every night an ancient croneCrooked, silver-flowered as a thorn,Came as quietly as the moonThrough the frosty night, with her old lanthorn,And put my childish self to bedWith all the dreams that nest in my head.And the moon's shadows were silvery seenAs hawthorn blossoms, perfumed flowersThe glamour of beauty that never has been-With petals falling through the night hours;And as the old crone spoke to meNight seemed a flowering Chinese waveThat bore me to each cloudy caveWhere there are mysteries none may see,-In far Thibet and Persia; wordsGrew into lands unknown, where birdsWere singing in an unknown tongueOf loveliness for ever young.Then in the morning an aged sageTall and thin as a cloudy cageCame, and we looked below at the eavesWhere cool airs float like lotus leavesAnd the crystal grass-blades of the rainTrembling grow to music againHe said, "We are wingless, can only inferWhat even the smallest birds can see.Outside in their nests they begin to be,-A spark of fire, and grass-like frondageIn crystal eggs as hard as the air...They break, as instinct from earth-bondageWhen man was sightless, before thoughts were.And the music that birds know, to me is unheardThough my head seems the egg of an extinet bindAnd my hair seems the crystal grass-blades of therainUpon the forlorn blue cliffs of the DayTrembling and growing to music again.But my heart still dreams that the warmth ofspringWill stir in its thickets, begin to singIn the lonely crystal egg of my head-Though it seems all the lovely wings are deadAnd only pity and love are leftIn my wintery heart, of its wings bereft.”Though I am lonely now and old,Those rare birds with their strange songs blessMy heart with spring's warm loveliness,-It never withered grows nor cold.For the unfledged thoughts within my brainSing in their sad and wintery nest,Singing their loveliest, singing their bestOf a world that is yet undreamt, unborn,Where never a shade is of cruelty or scorn-Those wild birds sing in an unknown tongueOf blossoming worlds for ever young!Edith Sitwell