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
Open 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.
Louis Macneice's Other Poems
Read this poem in other languages
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
Comments about this poem (Sunday Morning by Louis Macneice )
The Road Not Taken
If You Forget Me
Still I Rise
Edgar Allan Poe
I Know Why The Caged Bird Sings
Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening
William Ernest Henley
- The bark, Gangadharan nair Pulingat..
- This Is India, Here A Village Fool Can A.., Bijay Kant Dubey
- All The Time The Talk About Fanaticism &.., Bijay Kant Dubey
- Helpless, Robert Melliard
- नोँ सोर गोसो, Ronjoy Brahma
- The Judge Is Not A Judge, The Court Is N.., Bijay Kant Dubey
- Be childless., Rm.Shanmugam Chettiar.
- दंङ, Ronjoy Brahma
- Internet Poets, Without Pen & Paper & Th.., Bijay Kant Dubey
- How Suicide Works, C Jay Caputo