Arthur Bayldon

Arthur Bayldon Biography

Arthur Albert Dawson Bayldon, poet, was born on 20 March 1865 at Leeds, Yorkshire, England, son of Charles Henry Bayldon, solicitor, and Matilda Maria, née Dawson. As a student at Leeds Grammar School, he won prizes for swimming, and developed an appreciation of poetry through the scholar J. R. Tutin. His parents having died while he was young, he ...

Arthur Bayldon Comments

paul amrod 02 May 2019

I was so fascinated by these few poems I ordered a book of this man's genius.

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JOHN WICK 12 November 2018

COOL BRO KEEP IT UP I WHISH I WAS SO SMART LIKE YOU . YOU ARE THE BEST POEMS MAKER OF ALL TIME BRO

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The Best Poem Of Arthur Bayldon

A Woman's Mood

I think to-night I could bear it all,
   Even the arrow that cleft the core, --
Could I wait again for your swift footfall,
   And your sunny face coming in at the door.
With the old frank look and the gay young smile,
   And the ring of the words you used to say;
I could almost deem the pain worth while,
   To greet you again in the olden way!

But you stand without in the dark and cold,
   And I may not open the long closed door,
Nor call thro' the night, with the love of old, --
   "Come into the warmth, as in nights of yore!"
I kneel alone in the red fire-glow,
   And hear the wings of the wind sweep by;
You are out afar in the night, I know,
   And the sough of the wind is like a cry.

You are out afar -- and I wait within,
   A grave-eyed woman whose pulse is slow;
The flames round the red coals softly spin,
   And the lonely room's in a rosy glow.
The firelight falls on your vacant chair,
   And the soft brown rug where you used to stand;
Dear, never again shall I see you there,
   Nor lift my head for your seeking hand.

Yet sometimes still, and in spite of all,
   I wistful look at the fastened door,
And wait again for the swift footfall,
   And the gay young voice as in hours of yore.
It still seems strange to be here alone,
   With the rising sob of the wind without;
The sound takes a deep, insisting tone,
   Where the trees are swinging their arms about.

Its moaning reaches the sheltered room,
   And thrills my heart with a sense of pain;
I walk to the window, and pierce the gloom,
   With a yearning look that is all in vain.
You are out in a night of depths that hold
   No promise of dawning for you and me,
And only a ghost from the life of old
   Has come from the world of memory!

You are out evermore! God wills it so!
   But ah! my spirit is yearning yet!
As I kneel alone by the red fire-glow,
   My eyes grow dim with the old regret.
O when shall the aching throb grow still,
   The warm love-life turn cold at the core!
Must I be watching, against my will,
   For your banished face in the opening door?

It may be, dear, when the sequel's told
   Of the story, read to its bitter close;
When the inner meanings of life unfold,
   And the under-side of our being shows --
It may be then, in that truer light,
   When all our knowledge has larger grown,
I may understand why you stray to-night,
   And I am left, with the past, alone.

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