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Rather it’s an aggregator of the sounds it has helped spawn, which are plenty, and often great, even if they are yesterweek’s.

October goes, and its colors all pass: At dawn there's a silver film on the grass, And the reeds are shining as pipes of glass, But yesterweek where the cloud waves rolled Down a wind-swept sky that was grey, and cold, Sailed the hunter's moon,—a galleon of gold!

October goes, and its colors pass: At dawn there's a silver film on the grass, And the reeds are shining as pipes of glass, But yesterweek where the cloud waves rolled Down a wind-swept sky that was grey, and cold, Sailed the hunter's moon,—a galleon of gold!

From the convent on the sea, One mile off, or scarce so nigh, Swells the dirge as clear and high As if that, over brake and lea, Bodily the wind did carry The great altar of Saint Mary, And the fifty tapers burning o'er it, And the lady Abbess dead before it, And the chanting nuns whom yesterweek Her voice did charge and bless,— Chanting steady, chanting meek, Chanting with a solemn breath, Because that they are thinking less Upon the dead than upon death.

He be's lait up mit ter rummatiz sence yesterweek, und I trives for him.