Alice Meynell Poems
|1.||A Letter From A Girl To Her Own Old Age||1/3/2003|
|2.||A Poet Of One Mood||1/3/2003|
|3.||A Song Of Derivations||1/3/2003|
|5.||An Unmarked Festival||1/3/2003|
|7.||Builders Of Ruins||1/3/2003|
|8.||Cradle-Song At Twilight||1/3/2003|
|10.||In Early Spring||1/3/2003|
|13.||My Heart Shall Be Thy Garden||1/3/2003|
|16.||Singers To Come||1/3/2003|
|17.||Summer In England, 1914||1/3/2003|
|18.||The Lady Of The Lambs||1/3/2003|
|19.||The Return To Nature.||1/1/2004|
|21.||Your Own Fair Youth||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,--
She walks-the lady of my delight-
A shepherdess of sheep.
Her flocks are thoughts. She keeps them white;
She keeps them from the steep;
She feeds them on the fragrant height,
And folds them in for sleep.
She roams maternal hills and bright,
Dark valleys safe and deep.