"Small talk I"
di Edith Sitwell (1887-1964)

Upon the noon Cassandra died
The Harpy preened itself outside.
Bank holiday put forth its glamour,
And in the wayside station's clamour
We found the cafe at the rear,
And sat and drank our Pilsener beer.
Words smeared upon our wooden faces
Now paint them into queer grimaces;
The crackling greeneries that spirt
Like firworks, mock our souls inert,
And we seem feathered like a bird
Among the shadows scarcely heard.
Beneath her shade-ribbed
switchback mane
The harpy, breasted like a train,
Was haggling with a farmer's wife;
"Fresh harpy's eggs, no trace of life."
Miss Sitwell, cross and white as chalk,
Was indisposed for the small talk;
Since, peering through a shadowed door,
She saw Cassandra on the floor.