Arthur Symons

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

Arthur Symons Poems

81. The Fisher's Widow 4/12/2010
82. April Midnight? 2/13/2015
83. An Ending 3/20/2012
84. Stella Maris 4/12/2010
85. Alle Zattere 3/20/2012
86. Venice 4/12/2010
87. Grey Hours: Naples 4/12/2010
88. In The Meadows At Mantua 4/12/2010
89. At Dieppe 3/20/2012
90. Haschisch 4/12/2010
91. At Toledo 3/20/2012
92. At Seventeen 3/20/2012
93. Autumn Twilight 3/20/2012
94. At Carbis Bay 3/20/2012
95. Alla Dogana 3/20/2012
96. Perfume 4/12/2010
97. To A Dancer 3/20/2012
98. The Andante Of Snakes 1/3/2003
99. Behind The Scenes: Empire 4/12/2010
100. Colour Studies {at Dieppe} 4/12/2010
101. By Loe Pool 1/3/2003
102. Modern Beauty 4/12/2010
103. At Glan-Y-Wern 4/12/2010
104. A Winter's Night 3/20/2012
105. By The Pool Of The Third Rosses 1/3/2003
106. Pastel: Masks And Faces 4/12/2010
107. O, Water, Voice Of My Heart... 4/12/2010
108. At Burgos 1/3/2003
109. As A Perfume 4/12/2010
110. Gipsy Love 1/3/2003
111. Before The Squall 1/3/2003
112. Javanese Dancers 1/3/2003
113. The Broken Tryst 1/3/2003
114. Emmy 1/3/2003
115. At Fontainebleau 1/1/2004
116. The Old Women 1/3/2003
117. The Loom Of Dreams 1/3/2003
118. In Fountain Court 1/3/2003
119. Kisses 1/3/2003
120. Love And Sleep 1/3/2003

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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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