Jan Struther Poems
|44.||A Man From The North||2/24/2017|
|45.||Flowers At A Musical Party||2/24/2017|
|47.||At A Dull Party||2/25/2017|
|60.||London, May 1930||2/25/2017|
|61.||Ballade Of Vanishing Wild Flowers||3/6/2017|
|62.||Gold And Silver||3/6/2017|
|65.||To His Sweetheart, To Save Her Soul||3/6/2017|
|66.||Dirge For Brief Love||3/20/2017|
|68.||To An Orchard Near London||3/20/2017|
|70.||The Little World||3/20/2017|
|71.||Epitaph On A Lady Of Fashion||3/20/2017|
|75.||On A Child Who Died In Autumn||3/20/2017|
Comments about Jan Struther
THE raw materials of love are yours-
Fond hearts, and lusty blood, and minds in tune;
And so, dear innocents! you think yourselves
Am I, because I own
Chisel, mallet and stone,
A sculptor? And must he
Who hears a skylark and can hold a pen
A poet be?
If neither's so, why then
You're not yet lovers. But in time to come
(If senses grow not dulled nor spirit dum
By constant exercise of skill and wit,
By patient toil and judgment exquisite
Of body, mind and heart,
You may, my innocents, fashion
This tenderness, this liking and ...
The King's Road
The bus is swaying. We have left Sloane Square.
Noisily the conductor climbs the stair.
'Fares, please!' says he. 'Two penny ones,' say I.
'Two to World's End?' says he. I want to cry,
'Two to World's End-yes, yes, to the very end,
For me and my sweet friend . . . !'
But he turns away; he does not understand;
And we are alone, and dumb, and hand in hand.
love, we are poor, but the gold of the sunset fills our eyes,