Puritan Sonnet

  • Posted on: 26 January 2011
  • By: admin

Puritan Sonnet
by Elinor Wylie

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.