Biography of Muriel Stuart
Muriel Stuart (1885, Norbury, South London - 1967) The daughter of a Scottish barrister, was a poet, particularly concerned with the topic of sexual politics, though she first wrote poems about World War I. She later gave up poetry writing; her last work was published in the 1930s. She was born Muriel Stuart Irwin.
She was hailed by Hugh MacDiarmid as the best woman poet of the Scottish Renaissance although she was not Scottish, but English. Despite this, his comment led to her inclusion in many Scottish anthologies. Thomas Hardy described her poetry as "Superlatively good".
Her most famous poem "In the Orchard" is entirely dialogs and in no kind of verse form, which makes it innovative for its time. She does use rhyme: a mixture of half-rhyme and rhyming couplets (a,b,a,b form)
Other famous poems of hers are "The Seed Shop", "The Fools" and "Man and his Makers"
Muriel also wrote a gardeninonbg book called Gardener's Nightcap (1938) which was later reprinted by Persephone Books:.
She died on 18th December 1967.
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Muriel Stuart Poems
Madala Goes By The Orphanage
Unaware of its terror, And but half aware Of the world's beauty near her- Of sunlight on the stones,
In The Orchard
'I thought you loved me.' 'No, it was only fun.' 'When we stood there, closer than all?' 'Well, the harvest moon Was shining and queer in your hair, and it turned my head.' 'That made you?' 'Yes.' 'Just the moon and the light it made
Here in a quiet and dusty room they lie, Faded as crumbled stone or shifting sand, Forlorn as ashes, shrivelled, scentless, dry - Meadows and gardens running through my hand.
Forgotten Dead, I Salute You
Dawn has flashed up the startled skies, Night has gone out beneath the hill Many sweet times; before our eyes Dawn makes and unmakes about us still
Man And His Makers
1. I am one of the wind's stories, I am a fancy of the rain,- A memory of the high noon's glories,
Do you remember, Leda? There are those who love, to whom Love brings Great gladness: such things have not I.
A Song For Old Love
There shall be a song for both of us that day Though fools say you have long outlived your songs, And when, perhaps, because your hair is grey,
At A Life's End
COME here, rekindle the old fire, This last night leave no lamp unlit! In later days we twain shall sit, Remembering the joys of it,--
When to your virgin heart, unstirred, ungiven, Upon the quiet mountainside untrod,
I will not have roses in my room again, Nor listen to sonnets of Michael Angelo To-night nor any night, nor fret my brain
The Dead Moment
THE world is changed between us, never more Shall the dawn rise and seek another mate Over the hill-tops; never can the shore Spread out her ragged tresses to the roar
The Chalice Of Circe
DRINK of our Cup--of the red wine that burns in it, All the wild shames that have crusted its mouth, Passion that twists in it, Madness that churns in it, Fever that yearns in it, Folly that turns in it,
The End Of Love
WHO shall forget till his last hour be come,-- Until the useful service of the dust Hath drawn the emptying cerements in and in;-- Until the Earth hath eaten love and lust,
Chained to the years by the measureless wrong of man, Here I hang, here I suffer, here I cry,
A STREET at night, a silent square
That mirth forbids;
Whose windows, with drawn lips and narrowed lids,
Resent the intruder's stare.
Where winds are cautious in their play,
Where only steals
Some meager brougham on its muffled wheels
Before the portals grey.