Arthur Symons

(28 February 1865 – 22 January 1945 / Milford Havens, Wales)

Arthur Symons Poems

1. The Broken Tryst 1/3/2003
2. By Loe Pool 1/3/2003
3. Grey Hours: Naples 4/12/2010
4. Haschisch 4/12/2010
5. In The Meadows At Mantua 4/12/2010
6. Airs For The Lute 3/20/2012
7. At The Foresters 3/20/2012
8. At The Stage Door 3/20/2012
9. At Toledo 3/20/2012
10. The Beggars 3/20/2012
11. Benedictine 3/20/2012
12. Bohemian Folk-Song 3/20/2012
13. At The Ambassadeurs 3/20/2012
14. Declaration 3/20/2012
15. De Profundis Clemadi 3/20/2012
16. A Brother Of The Battuti 3/20/2012
17. Flora Of The Eden: Antwerp 3/20/2012
18. Fête Champêtre 3/20/2012
19. Hands 3/20/2012
20. Degrees Of Love 3/20/2012
21. In The Temple 3/20/2012
22. In The Vale Of Llangollen 3/20/2012
23. Hesterna Rosa 3/20/2012
24. Laus Mortis 3/20/2012
25. Laus Virginitatis 3/20/2012
26. Leves Amores 3/20/2012
27. Lillian 3/20/2012
28. A Litany Of Lethe 3/20/2012
29. Love In Autumn 3/20/2012
30. Love's Paradox 3/20/2012
31. Love's Secret 3/20/2012
32. Madrigal 3/20/2012
33. Margery Of The Fens 3/20/2012
34. Of Charity 3/20/2012
35. O Flame Of Living Love 3/20/2012
36. Old Age 3/20/2012
37. Renée 3/20/2012
38. Rosa Flammea 3/20/2012
39. Rubies 3/20/2012
40. Satiety 3/20/2012
Best Poem of Arthur Symons

To A Dancer

Intoxicatingly
Her eyes across the footlights gleam,
(The wine of love, the wine of dream)
Her eyes, that gleam for me!

The eyes of all that see
Draw to her glances, stealing fire
From her desire that leaps to my desire;
Her eyes that gleam for me!

Subtly, deliciously,
A quickening fire within me, beat
The rhythms of her poising feet;
Her feet that poise to me!

Her body's melody,
In silent waves of wandering sound,
Thrills to the sense of all around,
Yet thrills alone for me!

And oh, intoxicatingly,
When, at the magic ...

Read the full of To A Dancer

The Old Women

They pass upon their old, tremulous feet,
Creeping with little satchels down the street,
And they remember, many years ago,
Passing that way in silks. They wander, slow
And solitary, through the city ways,
And they alone remember those old days
Men have forgotten. In their shaking heads
A dancer of old carnivals yet treads
The measure of past waltzes, and they see

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