Yesterday

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                Yesterday</title>
                <author>Edith Sitwell</author>
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                        <addrLine>306 Andrews</addrLine>
                        <addrLine>University of Nebraska&#8211;Lincoln</addrLine>
                        <addrLine>Lincoln, NE 68588-4100</addrLine>
                        <addrLine>alextelesca@outlook.com</addrLine>
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                <date>2019</date>
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                    <title level="a">The Best Poems of 1924</title>
                    <editor>L.A.G. Strong</editor>
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                    <author>Edith Sitwell</author>
                    <date when="190406">May 1924</date>
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            <pb/> 
            <head>Yesterday</head> 
            <lg type="stanza">
<l>SWEET was my childish life to me</l>
<l>Like the first spring dream of a hawthorn tree...</l>
<l>Every night an ancient crone</l>
<l>Crooked, silver-flowered as a thorn,</l>
<l>Came as quietly as the moon</l>
<l>Through the frosty night, with her old lanthorn,</l>
<l>And put my childish self to bed</l>
<l>With all the dreams that nest in my head.</l>
<l>And the moon's shadows were silvery seen</l>
<l>As hawthorn blossoms, perfumed flowers</l>
<l>The glamour of beauty that never has been-</l>
<l>With petals falling through the night hours;</l>
<l>And as the old crone spoke to me</l>
<l>Night seemed a flowering Chinese wave</l>
<l>That bore me to each cloudy cave</l>
<l>Where there are mysteries none may see,-</l>
<l>In far Thibet and Persia; words</l>
<l>Grew into lands unknown, where birds</l>
<l>Were singing in an unknown tongue</l>
<l>Of loveliness for ever young.</l>
<l>Then in the morning an aged sage</l>
<l>Tall and thin as a cloudy cage</l>
<l>Came, and we looked below at the eaves</l>
<l>Where cool airs float like lotus leaves</l>
<l>And the crystal grass-blades of the rain</l>
<l>Trembling grow to music again</l>
<l>He said, "We are wingless, can only infer</l>
<l>What even the smallest birds can see.</l>
<l>Outside in their nests they begin to be,-</l>
<l>A spark of fire, and grass-like frondage</l>
<l>In crystal eggs as hard as the air...</l>
<l>They break, as instinct from earth-bondage</l>
<l>When man was sightless, before thoughts were.</l>
<l>And the music that birds know, to me is unheard</l>
<l>Though my head seems the egg of an extinet bind</l>
<l>And my hair seems the crystal grass-blades of the</l>
<l>rain</l>
<l>Upon the forlorn blue cliffs of the Day</l>
<l>Trembling and growing to music again.</l>
<l>But my heart still dreams that the warmth of</l>
<l>spring</l>
<l>Will stir in its thickets, begin to sing</l>
<l>In the lonely crystal egg of my head-</l>
<l>Though it seems all the lovely wings are dead</l>
<l>And only pity and love are left</l>
<l>In my wintery heart, of its wings bereft.”</l>
            </lg>
            
            <lg type="stanza">
<l>Though I am lonely now and old,</l>
<l>Those rare birds with their strange songs bless</l>
<l>My heart with spring's warm loveliness,-</l>
<l>It never withered grows nor cold.</l>
<l>For the unfledged thoughts within my brain</l>
<l>Sing in their sad and wintery nest,</l>
<l>Singing their loveliest, singing their best</l>
<l>Of a world that is yet undreamt, unborn,</l>
<l>Where never a shade is of cruelty or scorn-</l>
<l>Those wild birds sing in an unknown tongue</l>
<l>Of blossoming worlds for ever young!</l>
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            <byline>Edith Sitwell</byline> 
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Yesterday Edith Sitwell 2019 University of Nebraska–Lincoln Center for Alex Telesca's Fame
306 Andrews University of Nebraska–Lincoln Lincoln, NE 68588-4100 alextelesca@outlook.com
2019

Copyright © 2019 by Alex Telesca

 The Best Poems of 1924 L.A.G. Strong Edith Sitwell May 1924 Small, Maynard & Company Publishers Boston

Alex Telesca Transcribed and encoded a poem Yesterday SWEET was my childish life to me Like the first spring dream of a hawthorn tree... Every night an ancient crone Crooked, silver-flowered as a thorn, Came as quietly as the moon 5 Through the frosty night, with her old lanthorn, And put my childish self to bed With all the dreams that nest in my head. And the moon's shadows were silvery seen As hawthorn blossoms, perfumed flowers 10 The glamour of beauty that never has been- With petals falling through the night hours; And as the old crone spoke to me Night seemed a flowering Chinese wave That bore me to each cloudy cave 15 Where there are mysteries none may see,- In far Thibet and Persia; words Grew into lands unknown, where birds Were singing in an unknown tongue Of loveliness for ever young. 20 Then in the morning an aged sage Tall and thin as a cloudy cage Came, and we looked below at the eaves Where cool airs float like lotus leaves And the crystal grass-blades of the rain 25 Trembling grow to music again He said, "We are wingless, can only infer What even the smallest birds can see. Outside in their nests they begin to be,- A spark of fire, and grass-like frondage 30 In crystal eggs as hard as the air... They break, as instinct from earth-bondage When man was sightless, before thoughts were. And the music that birds know, to me is unheard Though my head seems the egg of an extinet bind 35 And my hair seems the crystal grass-blades of the rain Upon the forlorn blue cliffs of the Day Trembling and growing to music again. But my heart still dreams that the warmth of 40 spring Will stir in its thickets, begin to sing In the lonely crystal egg of my head- Though it seems all the lovely wings are dead And only pity and love are left 45 In my wintery heart, of its wings bereft.” Though I am lonely now and old, Those rare birds with their strange songs bless My heart with spring's warm loveliness,- It never withered grows nor cold. For the unfledged thoughts within my brain 5 Sing in their sad and wintery nest, Singing their loveliest, singing their best Of a world that is yet undreamt, unborn, Where never a shade is of cruelty or scorn- Those wild birds sing in an unknown tongue 10 Of blossoming worlds for ever young! Edith Sitwell

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Yesterday Edith Sitwell 2019 University of Nebraska–Lincoln Center for Alex Telesca's Fame
306 Andrews University of Nebraska–Lincoln Lincoln, NE 68588-4100 alextelesca@outlook.com
2019

Copyright © 2019 by Alex Telesca

 The Best Poems of 1924 L.A.G. Strong Edith Sitwell May 1924 Small, Maynard & Company Publishers Boston

Alex Telesca Transcribed and encoded a poem Yesterday SWEET was my childish life to me Like the first spring dream of a hawthorn tree... Every night an ancient crone Crooked, silver-flowered as a thorn, Came as quietly as the moon Through the frosty night, with her old lanthorn, And put my childish self to bed With all the dreams that nest in my head. And the moon's shadows were silvery seen As hawthorn blossoms, perfumed flowers The glamour of beauty that never has been- With petals falling through the night hours; And as the old crone spoke to me Night seemed a flowering Chinese wave That bore me to each cloudy cave Where there are mysteries none may see,- In far Thibet and Persia; words Grew into lands unknown, where birds Were singing in an unknown tongue Of loveliness for ever young. Then in the morning an aged sage Tall and thin as a cloudy cage Came, and we looked below at the eaves Where cool airs float like lotus leaves And the crystal grass-blades of the rain Trembling grow to music again He said, "We are wingless, can only infer What even the smallest birds can see. Outside in their nests they begin to be,- A spark of fire, and grass-like frondage In crystal eggs as hard as the air... They break, as instinct from earth-bondage When man was sightless, before thoughts were. And the music that birds know, to me is unheard Though my head seems the egg of an extinet bind And my hair seems the crystal grass-blades of the rain Upon the forlorn blue cliffs of the Day Trembling and growing to music again. But my heart still dreams that the warmth of spring Will stir in its thickets, begin to sing In the lonely crystal egg of my head- Though it seems all the lovely wings are dead And only pity and love are left In my wintery heart, of its wings bereft.” Though I am lonely now and old, Those rare birds with their strange songs bless My heart with spring's warm loveliness,- It never withered grows nor cold. For the unfledged thoughts within my brain Sing in their sad and wintery nest, Singing their loveliest, singing their best Of a world that is yet undreamt, unborn, Where never a shade is of cruelty or scorn- Those wild birds sing in an unknown tongue Of blossoming worlds for ever young! Edith Sitwell