The Seed-Shop Poem by Muriel Stuart
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.
Here in their safe and simple house of death,
Sealed in their shells, a million roses leap;
Here I can blow a garden with my breath,
And in my hand a forest lies asleep.
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...
Mr. Straw, resorting to insults only serves to embarrass you even more than your ill-conceived concept of poetry.
...a quiet and dusty room Well communicated and expressed Sylva
this is a wonderful poem, and I have written here twice now, that there is a verse missing....Grrrrrr!
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12/3/2023 10:16:56 AM # 1.0.0.1118
Such a lovely poem, singing beautifully with imagery!