Muriel Stuart

(1889-1967 / England)

Muriel Stuart Poems

1. The Bellman 1/1/2004
2. To A Poet, Charles Bridges 1/1/2004
3. The Father 4/12/2010
4. The Harebell 4/12/2010
5. The New Aspasia 4/12/2010
6. The Thief Of Beauty 4/12/2010
7. The Tryst 4/12/2010
8. Sic Transit 4/12/2010
9. Words 4/12/2010
10. Shrift 4/12/2010
11. The Wood And The Shore 4/12/2010
12. Thèlus Wood 4/12/2010
13. To----- 4/12/2010
14. White Magic 4/12/2010
15. The Balcony 1/1/2004
16. The Cloudberry 4/12/2010
17. The Fools 1/1/2004
18. Possession 1/1/2004
19. Tintagel 1/1/2004
20. To The Old Gods 1/1/2004
21. The Chalice Of Circe 1/1/2004
22. The Dead Moment 1/1/2004
23. Wild Geese Across The Moon 1/1/2004
24. The End Of Love 1/1/2004
25. Ave Et Vale 4/12/2010
26. In Praise Of Mandragora 1/1/2004
27. Enough 4/12/2010
28. In Memory Of Douglas Vernon Cow 4/12/2010
29. Boys Bathing 4/12/2010
30. For Fasting Days 4/12/2010
31. Now 1/1/2004
32. Lady Hamilton 4/12/2010
33. Mrs. Effingham's Swan Song 4/12/2010
34. Obsession 4/12/2010
35. Andromeda Unfettered 4/12/2010
36. Ave Et Vale 1/1/2004
37. Annunciation 4/12/2010
38. Leda 4/12/2010
39. A Chicot 1/1/2004
40. Man And His Makers 4/12/2010
Best Poem of Muriel Stuart

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
Under the tree?' 'Well, your mouth, too.' 'Yes, my mouth?'
'And the quiet there that sang like the drum in the booth.
You shouldn't have danced like that.' 'Like what?' 'So close,
Whith your head turned up, and the flower in your hair, a rose
That smelt all warm.' 'I loved you. I thought you knew
I wouldn't have danced like that with any...

Read the full of In The Orchard

The Seed-Shop

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.

In this brown husk a dale of hawthorn dreams;
A cedar in this narrow cell is thrust
That will drink deeply of a century's streams;
These lilies shall make summer on my dust.

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