Lesbia Harford

(1891 - 1927 / Australia)

Lesbia Harford Poems

121. Sometimes I Think The Happiest Of Love's Moments 4/15/2010
122. Sometimes I Watch You, Mark Your Brooding Eyes 4/15/2010
123. Sometimes I Wish That I Were Helen-Fair 4/15/2010
124. Street Music 4/15/2010
125. Street Scene—little Lonsdale St. 4/15/2010
126. Suburban Dames 4/15/2010
127. Summer Lightning 4/15/2010
128. Summer Lightning 1/1/2004
129. Tall Trees Along The Road, 4/15/2010
130. The Contest 4/15/2010
131. The Electric Tram To Kew 4/15/2010
132. The Folk I Love 4/15/2010
133. The Immigrant 4/15/2010
134. The Invisible People 4/15/2010
135. The Love I Look For 4/15/2010
136. The Melbourne Cup 4/15/2010
137. The Moonlit Room 4/15/2010
138. The Nuns And The Lilies 4/15/2010
139. The People Have Drunk The Wine Of Peace 4/15/2010
140. The Psychological Craze 4/15/2010
141. The Silent Dead 4/15/2010
142. The Sisters 4/15/2010
143. The Two Swans 4/15/2010
144. The Tyrant 4/15/2010
145. The Wife 4/15/2010
146. They Are So Glad Of A Young Companion, 4/15/2010
147. They Say — Priests Say 4/15/2010
148. This Evening I'M Alone. 4/15/2010
149. This Year I Have Seen Autumn With New Eyes 4/15/2010
150. Those Must Be Masts Of Ships The Gazer Sees 4/15/2010
151. Though I Had Lost My Love 4/15/2010
152. Three Teachers 4/15/2010
153. To Leslie 4/15/2010
154. To Look Across At Moira Gives Me Pleasure 4/15/2010
155. To Plato's Dictum 4/15/2010
156. Today I Saw 4/15/2010
157. Today Is Rebels' Day. And Yet We Work 4/15/2010
158. Today They Made A Bonfire 4/15/2010
159. Today When You Went Up The Hill 4/15/2010
160. Today, In Class, 4/15/2010
Best Poem of Lesbia Harford

A Meaning Learnt

I'm not his wife. I am his paramour:
His wayside love, picked up in journeying:
Rose of the hedgerows; fragrant, till he fling
Me down beside the ditch, a drooped thing
Some country boy may stick into his hat.
A paramour has no more use than that.

Read the full of A Meaning Learnt

Dearest, Dearest

Dearest, dearest,
Bother the slow hours
That hold and keep me
From the leafy bowers
You make more lovely than a storm of flowers.
Dearest, dearest,
If they let me go
I'd hasten to you
Where the waters flow
In among the shadows and the dreams we know.

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