Alice Christiana Gertrude Thompson Meynell was an English writer, editor, critic, and suffragist, now remembered mainly as a poet.
Meynell was born in Barnes, London, to Thomas James and Christiana (née Weller) Thompson. The family moved around England, Switzerland, and France, but she was brought up mostly in Italy, where a daughter of Thomas from his first marriage had settled. Her father was a friend of Charles Dickens.
Preludes (1875) was her first poetry collection, illustrated by her elder sister Elizabeth (the artist Lady Elizabeth Butler, 1850–1933, whose husband was Sir William Francis Butler). The work was warmly praised by Ruskin, ... more »
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Alice Meynell Poems
I must not think of thee; and, tired yet strong, I shun the love that lurks in all delight-- The love of thee--and in the blue heaven's height, And in the dearest passage of a song.
A Letter from a Girl to Her Own Old Age
Listen, and when thy hand this paper presses, O time-worn woman, think of her who blesses What thy thin fingers touch, with her caresses.
My heart shall be thy garden
My heart shall be thy garden. Come, my own, Into thy garden; thine be happy hours Among my fairest thoughts, my tallest flowers, From root to crowning petal, thine alone.
In Early Spring
O Spring, I know thee! Seek for sweet surprise In the young children's eyes. But I have learnt the years, and know the yet Leaf-folded violet.
Summer in England, 1914
On London fell a clearer light; Caressing pencils of the sun Defined the distances, the white Houses transfigured one by one,
Farewell to one now silenced quite, Sent out of hearing, out of sight,-- My friend of friends, whom I shall miss, He is not banished, though, for this,--
She walks-the lady of my delight- A shepherdess of sheep. Her flocks are thoughts. She keeps them white; She keeps them from the steep;
One wept whose only child was dead, New-born, ten years ago. "Weep not; he is in bliss," they said. She answered, "Even so,
The Lady of the Lambs
She walks -- the lady of my delight -- A shepherdess of sheep. Her flocks are thoughts. She keeps them white; She guards them from the steep.
The leaves are many under my feet, And drift one way. Their scent of death is weary and sweet. A flight of them is in the grey
Builders of Ruins
We build with strength and deep tower wall That shall be shattered thus and thus. And fair and great are court and hall, But how fair--this is not for us,
Farewell has long been said; I have forgone thee; I never name thee even. But how shall I learn virtues and yet shun thee? For thou art so near Heaven
The Return to Nature.
(I) PROMETHEUS 1- IT was the south : mid-everything, - Mid-land, mid-summer, noon ;
Home, home from the horizon far and clear, Hither the soft wings sweep; Flocks of the memories of the day draw near The dovecote doors of sleep.
Quotationsmore quotations »
''If there is a look of human eyes that tells of perpetual loneliness, so there is also the familiar look that is the sign of perpetual crowds.''Alice Meynell (1847-1922), British poet, essayist. "Solitude," Essays (1914).
''Let a man turn to his own childhoodno furtherif he will renew his sense of remoteness, and of the mystery of change.''Alice Meynell (1847-1922), British poet, essayist. "The Illusion of Historic Time," Essays (1914).
The true colour of life is the colour of the body, the colour of the covered red, the implicit and not explicit red of the living heart and the pulses. It is the modest colour of the unpublished blood...Alice Meynell (1847-1922), British poet, essayist. "The True Colour of Life," Essays (1914).
''It is easy to replace man, and it will take no great time, when Nature has lapsed, to replace Nature.''Alice Meynell (1847-1922), British poet, essayist. "The True Colour of Life," Essays (1914).
Comments about Alice Meynell
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Edgar Allan Poe
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I must not think of thee; and, tired yet strong,
I shun the love that lurks in all delight--
The love of thee--and in the blue heaven's height,
And in the dearest passage of a song.
Oh, just beyond the sweetest thoughts that throng
This breast, the thought of thee waits hidden yet bright;
But it must never, never come in sight;
I must stop short of thee the whole day long.
But when sleep comes to close each difficult day,
When night gives pause to the long watch I keep,
And all my bonds I needs must loose apart,
Must doff my will as raiment laid away,--