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The Seed-Shop

Rating: 3.8
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.
Here in their safe and simple house of death,
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COMMENTS
Bjpafa Meragente 12 March 2020
Complex, informed, overwhelming.
0 1 Reply
Sylvaonyema Uba 18 March 2017
...a quiet and dusty room Well communicated and expressed Sylva
1 1 Reply
Norma Southwood 04 March 2017
this is a wonderful poem, and I have written here twice now, that there is a verse missing....Grrrrrr!
0 2 Reply
Norma Southwood 04 March 2017
The second verse is missing from this version, as I said here so long ago. I wish that you would fix it! The missing stanza reads as follows; Death, that shall quicken at the call of Spring, sleepers to stir beneath June's magic kiss, though birds pass over, unremembering, and no bee seeks here roses that were his.
2 2 Reply
Norma Southwood 04 March 2017
You have missed out a verse.. Death, that shall quicken at the call of Spring, a cedar in this narrow cell is thrust. That shall drink deeply of a century's streams, these lilies shall make summer on my dust.
1 1 Reply
Margaret O Driscoll 12 September 2016
Wonderful work, glad I discovered this!
1 2 Reply
John Richter 16 March 2015
My my... I have only recently discovered Muriel. My only regret is that I did not find her sooner. What a lovely and simple little poem about seeds.... Muriel's mind must have been absolutely wonderful...
1 2 Reply
Besa Dede 13 September 2012
Such a lovely poem, singing beautifully with imagery!
3 3 Reply
Carlos Echeverria 13 September 2012
Mr. Straw, resorting to insults only serves to embarrass you more than your ill-conceived concept of poetry. You're on the verge of becoming a philistine, unless...
2 3 Reply
Carlos Echeverria 13 September 2012
Mr. Straw, resorting to insults only serves to embarrass you even more than your ill-conceived concept of poetry.
1 3 Reply

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