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    Poems
    Poems
    Poems
    Ebook88 pages46 minutes

    Poems

    By Muriel Stuart

    ()

    Read preview
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherArchive Classics
    Release dateNov 25, 2013
    Poems

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      Book preview

      Poems - Muriel Stuart

      The Project Gutenberg EBook of Poems, by Muriel Stuart

      This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with

      almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or

      re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included

      with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.net

      Title: Poems

      Author: Muriel Stuart

      Release Date: August 14, 2011 [EBook #37087]

      Language: English

      *** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK POEMS ***

      Produced by Al Haines

      POEMS

      By

      MURIEL STUART

      AUTHOR OF

      CHRIST AT CARNIVAL,

      THE COCKPIT OF IDOLS

      1922

      LONDON: WILLIAM HEINEMANN

      SONGS IN CAPTIVITY

          By R. H. Sauter

      BALLAD OF THE ROYAL ANN

          By Crosbie Garstin

      POEMS OF ISAAC ROSENBERG

      LONDON: WILLIAM HEINEMANN

      TO

      CHANGE,

      THE IMMORTAL FACTOR OF DELIVERANCE

      I wish to acknowledge my indebtedness to the Editors of The English Review, The New World, Poetry in America, and to Mr. Cecil Palmer, for several poems included in this volume.

      CONTENTS

      The Seed Shop

      Man and his Makers

      The New Aspasia

      A Song For Old Love

      Sic Transit

      Mrs. Effingham's Swan Song

      Annunciation

      Boys Bathing

      Lady Hamilton

      White Magic

      In the Orchard

      The Wood and the Shore

      The Tryst

      Leda

      The Harebell

      Words

      Shrift

      The Thief of Beauty

      Forgotten Dead, I Salute You

      Madala Goes by the Orphanage

      Obsession

      Enough

      In Memory of Douglas Vernon Cow

      The Cloudberry

      To ——

      For Fasting Days

      The Father

      Andromeda Unfettered

      THE SEED SHOP.

      Here in a quiet and dusty room they lie,

      Faded as crumbled stone or shifting sand,

      Forlorn as ashes, shrivelled, scentless, dry—

      Meadows and gardens running through my hand.

      Dead that shall quicken at the call of Spring,

      Sleepers to stir beneath June's magic kiss,

      Though birds pass over, unremembering,

      And no bee seek here roses that were his.

      In this brown husk a dale of hawthorn dreams

      A cedar in this narrow cell is thrust

      That will drink deeply of a century's streams,

      These lilies shall make summer on my dust.

      Here in their safe and simple house of death,

      Sealed in their shells a million roses leap;

      Here I can blow a garden with my breath,

      And in my hand a forest lies asleep.

      MAN AND HIS MAKERS.

      1.

      I am one of the wind's stories,

      I am a fancy of the rain,—

      A memory of the high noon's glories,

      The hint the sunset had of pain.

      2.

      They dreamed me as they dreamed all other;

      Hawthorn and I, I and the grass,

      With sister shade and phantom brother

      Across their slumber glide and pass.

      3.

      Twilight is in my blood, my being

      Mingles with trees and ferns and stones;

      Thunder and stars my lips are freeing,

      And there is sea-rack in my bones.

      4.

      Those that have dreamed me shall out-wake me,

      But I go hence with flowers and weeds;

      I am no more to those who make me

      Than other drifting fruit and seeds.

      5.

      And though I love them—mourn to leave them—

      Sea, earth and sunset, stars and streams,

      My tears, my passing do not grieve them...

      Other dreams have they, other dreams.

      THE NEW ASPASIA.

      If I have given myself to you and you,

      And if these pale hands are not virginal,

      Nor these bright lips beneath your own lips true,

      What matters it? I do not stand nor fall

      By your old foolish judgments of desire:

      If this were Helen's way it is not mine;

      I bring you beauty, but no Troys to fire:

      The cup I hold brims not with Borgia's wine.

      You, so soon snared of sudden brows and breasts,

      Lightly you think upon these lips, this hair.

      My thoughts are kinder: you are pity's guests:

      Compassion's bed you share.

      It was not lust delivered me to you;

      I gave my wondering mouth for pity's sake,

      For your strange, sighing lips I did but break

      Many

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