Sunday Morning: Difference between revisions
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<meta | <meta | ||
author=" | author="Mac-Neice, Louis" | ||
year_of_publication="1923" | year_of_publication="1923" | ||
genre="Poetry" | genre="Poetry" | ||
publisher="Faber and Faber" | publisher="Faber and Faber" | ||
journal="The Faber Book of Modern | journal="The Faber Book of Modern Verse" | ||
page_range="304" | page_range="304" | ||
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<paragraph keywords="pleasure, speed, maintenance, car part, road | <paragraph keywords="pleasure, speed, maintenance, car part, road"> | ||
<poem> | <poem> | ||
Down the road someone is practising scales, | Down the road someone is practising scales, | ||
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That you can abstract this day and make it to the week of time | That you can abstract this day and make it to the week of time | ||
A small eternity, a sonnet self-contained in rhyme. | A small eternity, a sonnet self-contained in rhyme. | ||
</poem> | |||
</paragraph> | |||
<paragraph keywords="architecture, music, sound, metaphor, haptic, death"> | |||
<poem> | |||
But listen, up the road, something gulps, the church spire | But listen, up the road, something gulps, the church spire | ||
Opens its eight bells out, skulls’ mouths which will not tire | Opens its eight bells out, skulls’ mouths which will not tire | ||
Revision as of 21:53, 16 July 2024
| Author | Mac-Neice, Louis |
|---|---|
| Genre | Poetry |
| Journal or Book | The Faber Book of Modern Verse |
| Publisher | Faber and Faber |
| Year of Publication | 1923 |
| Pages | 304 |
| Additional information | - |
Down the road someone is practising scales,
The notes like little fishes vanish with a wink of tails,
Man’s heart expands to tinker with his car
For this is Sunday morning, Fate’s great bazaar,
Regard these means as ends, concentrate on this Now,
And you may grow to music or drive beyond Hindhead anyhow,
Take corners on two wheels until you go so fast
That you can clutch a fringe or two of the windy past,
That you can abstract this day and make it to the week of time
A small eternity, a sonnet self-contained in rhyme.
But listen, up the road, something gulps, the church spire
Opens its eight bells out, skulls’ mouths which will not tire
To tell how there is no music or movement which secures
Escape from the weekday time. Which deadens and endures.
