Edith Sitwell Quotes

The living blind and seeing Dead together lie
As if in love . . . There was no more hating then,
And no more love; Gone is the heart of Man.

Our hearts seemed safe in our breasts and sang to the
Light — The marrow in the bone
We dreamed was safe. . . the blood in the veins, the
sap in the tree
Were springs of Deity.

Mother or Murderer, you have
given or taken life — Now all is one!

Remember only this of our hopeless love
That never till Time is done
Will the fire of the heart and the fire of the mind be one.

The flames of the heart consumed me, and the mind
Is but a foolish wind.

The great gold planet that is the mourning heat of the Sun
Is greater than all gold, more powerful
Than the tawny body of a Lion that fire consumes
Like all that grows or leaps... so is the heart
More powerful than all dust.

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."

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...

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 —

Oh how the Vacancy
Laughed at them rushing by.
"Turn again, flesh and brain,
Only yourselves again!
How far above the ape
Differing in each shape,
You with your regular
Meaningless circles are!"

White as a winding sheet, Masks blowing down the street:
Moscow, Paris London, Vienna — all are undone. The drums of death are mumbling, rumbling, and tumbling, Mumbling, rumbling, and tumbling, The world's floors are quaking, crumbling and breaking.

Within your magic web of hair, lies furled
The fire and splendour of the ancient world;
The dire gold of the comet's wind-blown hair;
The songs that turned to gold the evening air
When all the stars of heaven sang for joy.

Tall windows show Infinity; And, hard reality, The candles weep and pry and dance Like lives mocked at by Chance. The rooms are vast as Sleep within; When once I ventured in, Chill Silence, like a surging sea, Slowly enveloped me.

The busy chatter of the heat Shrilled like a parakeet; And shuddering at the noonday light The dust lay dead and white As powder on a mummy's face, Or fawned with simian grace Round booths with many a hard bright toy And wooden brittle joy: The cap and bells of Time the Clown That, jangling, whistled down Young cherubs hidden in the guise Of every bird that flies; And star-bright masks for youth to wear, Lest any dream that fare — Bright pilgrim — past our ken, should see Hints of Reality.

Hot water is my native element. I was in it as a baby, and I have never seemed to get out of it ever since.