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Winter is the time for comfort, for good food and warmth, for the touch of a friendly hand and for a talk beside the fire: it is the time for home.

Edith Sitwell

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Edith Sitwell
Age: 77 †
Born: 1887
Born: September 7
Died: 1964
Died: December 9
Biographer
Essayist
Literary Critic
Poet
Writer
Scarborough
North Yorkshire
Dame Edith Louisa Sitwell
Edith Louisa Sitwell
Dame Edith Sitwell
Miss Edith
Time
Cold
Beside
Food
Warmth
Fire
Friendly
Hand
Weather
Talk
Snow
Hands
Winter
Solstice
Home
Touch
Wintertime
Good
Comfort
January

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Our hearts seemed safe in our breasts and sang to the Light The marrow in the bone We dreamed was safe. . . the blood in the veins, the sap in the tree Were springs of Deity.
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I am an unpopular electric eel set in a pond of goldfish.
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My poems are hymns of praise to the glory of life.
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White as a winding sheet, Masks blowing down the street: Moscow, Paris London, Vienna - all are undone. The drums of death are mumbling, rumbling, and tumbling, Mumbling, rumbling, and tumbling, The world's floors are quaking, crumbling and breaking.
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What is the special privilege of youth? It is, I think, the power of looking forward, the firm belief that the future holds something that is worth possessing, and that, therefore, one can let the present moment drop from one without regret and without fear.
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Why not be oneself? That is the whole secret of a successful appearance. If one is a greyhound, why try to look like a Pekingese?
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The poet is a brother speaking to a brother of a moment of their other lives - a moment that had been buried beneath the dust of the busy world.
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All great poetry is dipped in the dyes of the heart.
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Rhythm is one of the principal translators between dream and reality. Rhythm might be described as, to the world of sound, what light is to the world of sight. It shapes and gives new meaning. Rhythm was described by Schopenhauer as melody deprived of its pitch.
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There is no truth. Only points of view.
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It is part of the poet's work to show each man what he sees but does not know he sees.
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It is hardly respectable to be good nowadays.
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What an artist is for is to tell us what we see but do not know that we see.
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The light would show (if it could harden) Eternities of kitchen garden
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The reason why Matthew Arnold, to my feeling, fails entirely as a poet (though no doubt his ideas were good - at least, I am told they were) is that he had no sense of touch whatsoever. Nothing made any impression on his skin. He could feel neither the shape nor the texture of a poem with his hands.
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Good taste is the worst vice ever invented.
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I am one of those unhappy persons who inspire bores to the greatest flights of art.
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My personal hobbies are reading, listening to music, and silence.
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I may say that I think greed about poetry is the only permissible greed - it is, indeed, unavoidable.
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As for the usefulness of poetry, its uses are many. It is the deification of reality. It should make our days holy to us. The poet should speak to all men, for a moment, of that other life of theirs that they have smothered and forgotten.
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