Marjorie Lowry Christie Pickthall
Marjorie Lowry Christie Pickthall (September 14, 1883, Gunnersbury, London, – April 19, 1922, Vancouver), was a Canadian writer who was born in England but lived in Canada from the time she was seven. She was once "thought to be the best Canadian poet of her generation."
Marjorie Pickthall was born in 1883 in the west London district of Gunnersbury, to Arthur Christie Pickthall, a surveyor and the son of a Church of England clergyman, and Elizabeth Helen Mary Pickthall (née Mallard), daughter of an officer in the Royal Navy, part Irish and part Huguenot.
According to her father, Pickthall had planned her career before she was six; she would be a writer and ... more »
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Marjorie Lowry Christie Pickthall Poems
Under the level winter sky I saw a thousand Christs go by. They sang an idle song and free As they went up to calvary.
Bartimeus Grown Old
YEA, I am he that dwelt beside this tomb. I was a child. God smote me from the sun. A little while, I had forgot to run
See, the grass is full of stars, Fallen in their brightness; Hearts they have of shining gold, Rays of shining whiteness.
Through the starred Judean night She went, in travail of the Light, With the earliest hush she saw God beside her in the straw.
I Shall Not Go With Pain
I shall not go with pain Whether you hold me, whether you forget My little loss and my immortal gain. O flower unseen, O fountain sealed apart!
WHEN I was a little lad With folly on my lips, Fain was I for journeying All the seas in ships.
Adam and Eve
When the first dark had fallen around them And the leaves were weary of praise, In the clear silence Beauty found them And shewed them all her ways.
For All Prisoners And Captives
OVER the English trees and the English meadows Twilight is falling clear, But my heart walks far in the homeless winds and the shadows
A Child’s Song
WHEN the Child played in Galilee, He had no wine-clear maple leaves, No west winds singing of the sea Over the frosted sheaves;
The Green Month
WHAT of all the colours shall I bring you for your fairing, Fit to lay your fingers on, fine enough for you ?–
The Shepherd Boy
WHEN the red moon hangs over the fold, And the cypress shadow is rimmed with gold, O little sheep, I have laid me low,
WHEN the white iris folds the drowsing bee, When the first cricket wakes The fairy hosts of his enchanted brakes,
LORD, on this paper white, My soul would write Tales that were heard of old Of perilous things and bold;
YE have been bought With an immortal price, O, windflowers quick as thought Of love in solitude,
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Under the level winter sky
I saw a thousand Christs go by.
They sang an idle song and free
As they went up to calvary.
Careless of eye and coarse of lip,
They marched in holiest fellowship.
That heaven might heal the world, they gave
Their earth-born dreams to deck the grave.
With souls unpurged and steadfast breath
They supped the sacrament of death.
And for each one, far off, apart,
Seven swords have rent a woman's heart.