Alice Meynell Poems
|2.||A Poet Of One Mood||1/3/2003|
|3.||Singers To Come||1/3/2003|
|4.||Your Own Fair Youth||1/3/2003|
|5.||An Unmarked Festival||1/3/2003|
|6.||Cradle-Song At Twilight||1/3/2003|
|7.||A Song Of Derivations||1/3/2003|
|9.||Builders Of Ruins||1/3/2003|
|10.||The Return To Nature.||1/1/2004|
|11.||The Lady Of The Lambs||1/3/2003|
|15.||Summer In England, 1914||1/3/2003|
|17.||My Heart Shall Be Thy Garden||1/3/2003|
|19.||In Early Spring||1/3/2003|
|20.||A Letter From A Girl To Her Own Old Age||1/3/2003|
Comments about Alice Meynell
I must not think of thee; and, tired yet strong,
I shun the love that lurks in all delight--
The love of thee--and in the blue heaven's height,
And in the dearest passage of a song.
Oh, just beyond the sweetest thoughts that throng
This breast, the thought of thee waits hidden yet bright;
But it must never, never come in sight;
I must stop short of thee the whole day long.
But when sleep comes to close each difficult day,
When night gives pause to the long watch I keep,
And all my bonds I needs must loose apart,
Must doff my will as raiment laid away,--
One wept whose only child was dead,
New-born, ten years ago.
"Weep not; he is in bliss," they said.
She answered, "Even so,
"Ten years ago was born in pain
A child, not now forlorn.
But oh, ten years ago, in vain,
A mother, a mother was born."