Harold Edward Monro was a British poet, the proprietor of the Poetry Bookshop in London which helped many famous poets bring their work before the public. Monro was born in Brussels, but his parents were Scottish. He was educated at Radley and at Caius College, Cambridge. His first collection of poetry was published in 1906. He founded a poetry magazine, The Poetry Review, which was to be very influential. In 1912, he founded the Poetry Bookshop in Bloomsbury, London, publishing new collections at his own expense and rarely making a profit, as well as providing a welcoming environment for readers and poets alike. Several poets, including Wilfred Owen, actually lodged in the rooms above the ... more »
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Harold Monro Poems
Milk For The Cat
When the tea is brought at five o'clock, And all the neat curtains are drawn with care, The little black cat with bright green eyes
WHEN you have tidied all things for the night, And while your thoughts are fading to their sleep, You'll pause a moment in the late firelight,
Overheard on a Salmarsh
Nymph, nymph, what are your beads? Green glass, goblin. Why do you stare at them? Give them me.
Child of Dawn
O gentle vision in the dawn: My spirit over faint cool water glides, Child of the day, To thee;
The Bird at Dawn
What I saw was just one eye In the dawn as I was going : A bird can carry all the sky
You little friend, your nose is ready; you sniff, Asking for that expected walk, (Your nostrils full of the happy rabbit-whiff)
Youth in Arms
HAPPY boy, happy boy, David the immortal-willed, Youth a thousand thousand times Slain, but not once killed,
When I returned at sunset, The serving-maid was singing softly Under the dark stairs, and in the house Twilight had entered like a moon-ray.
The Rebellious Vine
One day, the vine That clomb on god’s own house Cried, “I will not
Children Of Love
The holy boy Went from his mother out in the cool of the day Over the sun-parched fields And in among the olives shining green and shining grey.
Tell me about that harvest field. Oh! Fifty acres of living bread. The colour has painted itself in my heart; The form is patterned in my head.
The Nightingale Near The House
Here is the soundless cypress on the lawn: It listens, listens. Taller trees beyond Listen. The moon at the unruffled pond
It is the sacred hour: above the far Low emerald hills that northward fold, Calmly, upon the blue the evening star Floats, wreathed in dusky gold.
This might have been a place for sleep, But, as from that small hollow there Hosts of bright thistledown begin
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
(26 April 1564 - 23 April 1616)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(31 May 1819 - 26 March 1892)
(31 October 1795 – 23 February 1821)
Milk For The Cat
When the tea is brought at five o'clock,
And all the neat curtains are drawn with care,
The little black cat with bright green eyes
Is suddenly purring there.
At first she pretends, having nothing to do,
She has come in merely to blink by the grate,
But, though tea may be late or the milk may be
She is never late.
And presently her agate eyes
Take a soft large milky haze,
And her independent casual glance
Becomes a stiff, hard gaze.
Then she stamps her claws or lifts her ears,
Or twists her tail and begins to stir,
Till suddenly ...