Classic and Contemporary Poetry
THE DRUM: THE NARRATIVE OF THE DEMON OF TEDWORTH, by EDITH SITWELL Poet Analysis Poet's Biography First Line: In his tall senatorial Last Line: Where the drum rolls up the stair, nor tarries. Subject(s): Drums; Musical Instruments; Winter; Witchcraft & Witches | ||||||||
(The Narrative of the Demon Tedworth) In his tall senatorial, Black and manorial, House where decoy-duck Dust doth clack -- Clatter and quack To a shadow black, -- Said the musty Justice Mompesson, 'What is that dark stark beating drum That we hear rolling like the sea?' 'It is a beggar with a pass Signed by you.' 'I signed not one.' They took the ragged drum that we Once heard rolling like the sea; In the house of the Justice it must lie And usher in Eternity. . . . . Is it black night? Black as Hecate howls a star Wolfishly, and whined The wind from very far. In the pomp of the Mompesson house is one Candle that lolls like the midnight sun, Or the coral combe of a cock; . . . it rocks . . . Only the goatish snow's locks Watch the candles lit by fright One by one through the black night. Through the kitchen there runs a hare -- Whinnying, whines like grass, the air; It passes; now is standing there A lovely lady . . . see her eyes -- Black angels in a heavenly place, Her shady locks and her dangerous grace. 'I thought I saw the wicked old witch in The richest gallipot in the kitchen!' A lolloping galloping candle confesses. 'Outside in the passage are wildernesses Of darkness rustling like witches' dresses.' Out go the candles one by one Hearing the rolling of a drum! What is the march we hear groan As the hoofed sound of a drum marched on With a pang like darkness, with a clang Blacker than an orang-outang? 'Heliogabalus is alone, -- Only his bones to play upon!' The mocking money in the pockets Then turned black . . . now caws The fire . . . outside, one scratched the door As with iron claws, -- Scratching under the children's bed And up the trembling stairs . . . 'Long dead' Moaned the water black as crape. Over the snow the wintry moon Limp as henbane, or herb paris, Spotted the bare trees; and soon Whinnying, neighed the maned blue wind Turning the burning milk to snow, Whining it shied down the corridor -- Over the floor I heard it go Where the drum rolls up the stair, nor tarries. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...WILD WITCHES' BALL by JACK PRELUTSKY POT MACABRE by DONALD DAVIDSON CHANSON INNOCENTE: 2, FR. TULIPS by EDWARD ESTLIN CUMMINGS TWO WITCHES: 1. THE WITCH OF COOS by ROBERT FROST TWO WITCHES: 2. THE PAUPER WITCH OF GRAFTON by ROBERT FROST THE WITCH IN THE GLASS by SARAH MORGAN BRYAN PIATT THE PROPHECY OF SAMUEL SEWALL by JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER AN OLD WOMAN: 2. HARVEST by EDITH SITWELL |
|