Edwin Muir Poems
|2.||Reading In Wartime||4/1/2010|
|3.||They Could Not Tell Me Who Should Be My Lord||4/1/2010|
|4.||The Angel And The Girl||4/1/2010|
|6.||Robert The Bruce (To Douglas In Dying)||4/1/2010|
|11.||The Incarnate One||1/3/2003|
|13.||In Love For Long||1/3/2003|
|16.||The Child Dying||1/3/2003|
|19.||Circle And Square||1/3/2003|
|21.||The Good Man In Hell||1/3/2003|
Barely a twelvemonth after
The seven days war that put the world to sleep,
Late in the evening the strange horses came.
By then we had made our covenant with silence,
But in the first few days it was so still
We listened to our breathing and were afraid.
On the second day
The radios failed; we turned the knobs; no answer.
On the third day a warship passed us, heading north,
Dead bodies piled on the deck. On the sixth day
A plane plunged over us into the sea. Thereafter
Nothing. The radios dumb;
And still they stand in corners of our kitchens,
And stand, ...
The rivulet-loving wanderer Abraham
Through waterless wastes tracing his fields of pasture
Led his Chaldean herds and fattening flocks
With the meandering art of wavering water
That seeks and finds, yet does not know its way.
He came, rested and prospered, and went on,
Scattering behind him little pastoral kingdoms,
And over each one its own particular sky,
Not the great rounded sky through which he journeyed,