Alice Meynell Poems
|2.||Singers To Come||1/3/2003|
|3.||Your Own Fair Youth||1/3/2003|
|4.||An Unmarked Festival||1/3/2003|
|5.||Cradle-Song At Twilight||1/3/2003|
|6.||A Poet Of One Mood||1/3/2003|
|8.||Builders Of Ruins||1/3/2003|
|9.||The Return To Nature.||1/1/2004|
|10.||A Song Of Derivations||1/3/2003|
|11.||The Lady Of The Lambs||1/3/2003|
|16.||Summer In England, 1914||1/3/2003|
|18.||My Heart Shall Be Thy Garden||1/3/2003|
|19.||In Early Spring||1/3/2003|
|20.||A Letter From A Girl To Her Own Old Age||1/3/2003|
I must not think of thee; and, tired yet strong,
I shun the love that lurks in all delight--
The love of thee--and in the blue heaven's height,
And in the dearest passage of a song.
Oh, just beyond the sweetest thoughts that throng
This breast, the thought of thee waits hidden yet bright;
But it must never, never come in sight;
I must stop short of thee the whole day long.
But when sleep comes to close each difficult day,
When night gives pause to the long watch I keep,
And all my bonds I needs must loose apart,
Must doff my will as raiment laid away,--
The leaves are many under my feet,
And drift one way.
Their scent of death is weary and sweet.
A flight of them is in the grey
Where sky and forest meet.
The low winds moan for sad sweet years;
The birds sing all for pain,
Of a common thing, to weary ears,--