Lesbia Harford Poems
|161.||Up In My Room On My Unmade Bed||4/15/2010|
|162.||We Climbed That Hill,||4/15/2010|
|163.||Weekend At Mt. Dandenong||4/15/2010|
|164.||What Were The Good Of Stars If None Looked On Them||4/15/2010|
|165.||When Day Is Over||4/15/2010|
|166.||When I Am Articled||4/15/2010|
|167.||When I Get Up To Light The Fire,||4/15/2010|
|168.||When I Go Up To Work The Young Blue Sea||4/15/2010|
|169.||When I Was Still A Child||4/15/2010|
|170.||When My Lover Put The Sea Between Us||4/15/2010|
|171.||Whenever I Think Of You, You Are Alone||4/15/2010|
|173.||Why Does She Put Me To Many Indignities||4/15/2010|
|175.||You May Have Other Loves,||4/15/2010|
|176.||You Want A Lily||4/15/2010|
|177.||You, Whom The Grave Cannot Bind||4/15/2010|
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.
Emmie, Emmie Adams
Emmie, Emmie Adams,
With her insolent air,
Tied a little bit of rag
In her yellow hair.
When Lena, wondering,
Asked why it was there,
Emmie said she didn't know
And she didn't care.
I think Emmie Adams,
Though you are so fair,
That must be the devil's horn
In your yellow hair.