Arthur Symons

(28 February 1865 – 22 January 1945 / Milford Havens, Wales)

Arthur Symons Poems

1. Bohemian Folk-Song 3/20/2012
2. Degrees Of Love 3/20/2012
3. To a Grey Dress 10/29/2015
4. White Magic 3/20/2012
5. Madrigal 3/20/2012
6. Of Charity 3/20/2012
7. O Flame Of Living Love 3/20/2012
8. Old Age 3/20/2012
9. On The Doorstep 3/20/2012
10. On The Stage 3/20/2012
11. Renée 3/20/2012
12. Rosa Flammea 3/20/2012
13. Rubies 3/20/2012
14. Serata Di Fiesta 3/20/2012
15. To Muriel: At The Opera 3/20/2012
16. The Unloved 3/20/2012
17. Variations Upon Love 3/20/2012
18. Flora Of The Eden: Antwerp 3/20/2012
19. Fête Champêtre 3/20/2012
20. Hands 3/20/2012
21. Hesterna Rosa 3/20/2012
22. Laus Mortis 3/20/2012
23. Laus Virginitatis 3/20/2012
24. Lillian 3/20/2012
25. Declaration 3/20/2012
26. De Profundis Clemadi 3/20/2012
27. The Beggars 3/20/2012
28. Benedictine 3/20/2012
29. Love In Autumn 3/20/2012
30. Love's Paradox 3/20/2012
31. Love's Secret 3/20/2012
32. Leves Amores 3/20/2012
33. In The Temple 3/20/2012
34. In The Vale Of Llangollen 3/20/2012
35. Veneta Marina 3/20/2012
36. Soror Tua 3/20/2012
37. Satiety 3/20/2012
38. Opals 3/20/2012
39. The Price 3/20/2012
40. Margery Of The Fens 3/20/2012
Best Poem of Arthur Symons

Amends To Nature

I have loved colours, and not flowers;
Their motion, not the swallows wings;
And wasted more than half my hours
Without the comradeship of things.

How is it, now, that I can see,
With love and wonder and delight,
The children of the hedge and tree,
The little lords of day and night?

How is it that I see the roads,
No longer with usurping eyes,
A twilight meeting-place for toads,
A mid-day mart for butterflies?

I feel, in every midge that hums,
Life, fugitive and infinite,
And suddenly the world becomes
A part of me and I of ...

Read the full of Amends To Nature

The Old Women

They pass upon their old, tremulous feet,
Creeping with little satchels down the street,
And they remember, many years ago,
Passing that way in silks. They wander, slow
And solitary, through the city ways,
And they alone remember those old days
Men have forgotten. In their shaking heads
A dancer of old carnivals yet treads
The measure of past waltzes, and they see

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