Muriel Stuart

(1889-1967 / England)

Muriel Stuart Poems

1. The Bellman 1/1/2004
2. To A Poet, Charles Bridges 1/1/2004
3. Sic Transit 4/12/2010
4. The Cloudberry 4/12/2010
5. The Father 4/12/2010
6. The Harebell 4/12/2010
7. The New Aspasia 4/12/2010
8. The Tryst 4/12/2010
9. Words 4/12/2010
10. The Wood And The Shore 4/12/2010
11. Thèlus Wood 4/12/2010
12. To----- 4/12/2010
13. White Magic 4/12/2010
14. Shrift 4/12/2010
15. The Balcony 1/1/2004
16. The Thief Of Beauty 4/12/2010
17. Possession 1/1/2004
18. To The Old Gods 1/1/2004
19. The Chalice Of Circe 1/1/2004
20. The Dead Moment 1/1/2004
21. Tintagel 1/1/2004
22. The End Of Love 1/1/2004
23. Wild Geese Across The Moon 1/1/2004
24. Ave Et Vale 4/12/2010
25. In Praise Of Mandragora 1/1/2004
26. Enough 4/12/2010
27. In Memory Of Douglas Vernon Cow 4/12/2010
28. For Fasting Days 4/12/2010
29. Boys Bathing 4/12/2010
30. Mrs. Effingham's Swan Song 4/12/2010
31. Lady Hamilton 4/12/2010
32. Andromeda Unfettered 4/12/2010
33. Obsession 4/12/2010
34. Ave Et Vale 1/1/2004
35. Annunciation 4/12/2010
36. Leda 4/12/2010
37. A Chicot 1/1/2004
38. Man And His Makers 4/12/2010
39. Forgiveness 1/1/2004
40. Christ At Carnival 1/1/2004

Comments about Muriel Stuart

  • Michael Shepherd (11/14/2004 2:22:00 PM)

    Muriel died in 1967.

    2 person liked.
    1 person did not like.
Best Poem of Muriel Stuart

In The Orchard

'I thought you loved me.' 'No, it was only fun.'
'When we stood there, closer than all?' 'Well, the harvest moon
Was shining and queer in your hair, and it turned my head.'
'That made you?' 'Yes.' 'Just the moon and the light it made
Under the tree?' 'Well, your mouth, too.' 'Yes, my mouth?'
'And the quiet there that sang like the drum in the booth.
You shouldn't have danced like that.' 'Like what?' 'So close,
Whith your head turned up, and the flower in your hair, a rose
That smelt all warm.' 'I loved you. I thought you knew
I wouldn't have danced like that with any...

Read the full of In The Orchard

The Seed-Shop

Here in a quiet and dusty room they lie,
Faded as crumbled stone or shifting sand,
Forlorn as ashes, shrivelled, scentless, dry -
Meadows and gardens running through my hand.

In this brown husk a dale of hawthorn dreams;
A cedar in this narrow cell is thrust
That will drink deeply of a century's streams;
These lilies shall make summer on my dust.

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