Edith Sitwell om läsandet, musiken, tystnaden

Intrigued by each other ... Edith Sitwell and Marilyn Monroe in 1953. Photograph: George Silk/The Life Picture Collection/Getty Images

"My personal hobbies are reading, listening to music, and silence" Edith Sitwell

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Still Falls the Rain

Still falls the Rain—

Dark as the world of man, black as our loss—

Blind as the nineteen hundred and forty nails

Upon the Cross.

 

Still falls the Rain

With a sound like the pulse of the heart that is changed to the hammer-beat

In the Potter’s Field, and the sound of the impious feet

 

On the Tomb:

                Still falls the Rain

 

In the Field of Blood where the small hopes breed and the human brain

Nurtures its greed, that worm with the brow of Cain.

 

Still falls the Rain

At the feet of the Starved Man hung upon the Cross.

Christ that each day, each night, nails there, have mercy on us—

On Dives and on Lazarus:

Under the Rain the sore and the gold are as one.

 

Still falls the Rain—

Still falls the Blood from the Starved Man’s wounded Side:

He bears in His Heart all wounds,—those of the light that died,

The last faint spark

In the self-murdered heart, the wounds of the sad uncomprehending dark,

The wounds of the baited bear—

The blind and weeping bear whom the keepers beat

On his helpless flesh... the tears of the hunted hare.

 

Still falls the Rain—

Then— O Ile leape up to my God: who pulles me doune—

See, see where Christ’s blood streames in the firmament:

It flows from the Brow we nailed upon the tree

 

Deep to the dying, to the thirsting heart

That holds the fires of the world,—dark-smirched with pain

As Caesar’s laurel crown.

 

Then sounds the voice of One who like the heart of man

Was once a child who among beasts has lain—

“Still do I love, still shed my innocent light, my Blood, for thee.”

Dame Edith Sitwell1952. Dame Edith Louisa Sitwell DBE (7 September 1887– 9 December 1964) was a British poet and critic