Down to the Puritan marrow of my bones There's something in this richness that I hate. I love the look, austere, immaculate, Of landscapes dranvn in pearly monotones. There's something in my very blood that owns Bare hills, cold silver on a sky of slate, A thread of water, churned to milky spate Streaming through slanted pastures fenced with stones. I love those skies, thin blue or snowy gray, Those fields sparse-planted, rendering meager sheaves; That spring, briefer than apple-blossom's breath; Summer, so much too beautiful to stay; Swift autumn, like a bonfire of leaves; And sleepy winter, Eke the sleep of death.
- by Elinor Wylie (1885 - 1928), "Puritan sonnet" [author's text checked 1 time against a primary source]
Musical settings (art songs, Lieder, mélodies, (etc.), choral pieces, and other vocal works set to this text), listed by composer (not necessarily exhaustive)
- by John Woods Duke (1899 - 1984), "Puritan sonnet", 1984. [mezzo-soprano and piano] [ sung text not yet checked against a primary source]
Researcher for this text: Emily Ezust [Administrator]
This text was added to the website: 2011-02-08
Line count: 14
Word count: 103