Arthur Symons

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

Arthur Symons Poems

1. Degrees Of Love 3/20/2012
2. Bohemian Folk-Song 3/20/2012
3. April Midnight? 2/13/2015
4. The Unloved 3/20/2012
5. Variations Upon Love 3/20/2012
6. Veneta Marina 3/20/2012
7. White Heliotrope 3/20/2012
8. White Magic 3/20/2012
9. Love In Autumn 3/20/2012
10. Love's Paradox 3/20/2012
11. Love's Secret 3/20/2012
12. Madrigal 3/20/2012
13. Margery Of The Fens 3/20/2012
14. Of Charity 3/20/2012
15. O Flame Of Living Love 3/20/2012
16. Old Age 3/20/2012
17. On The Doorstep 3/20/2012
18. On The Stage 3/20/2012
19. Opals 3/20/2012
20. Renée 3/20/2012
21. Rosa Flammea 3/20/2012
22. Rubies 3/20/2012
23. Satiety 3/20/2012
24. Serata Di Fiesta 3/20/2012
25. Soror Tua 3/20/2012
26. The Price 3/20/2012
27. To Muriel: At The Opera 3/20/2012
28. Flora Of The Eden: Antwerp 3/20/2012
29. Fête Champêtre 3/20/2012
30. Hands 3/20/2012
31. Hesterna Rosa 3/20/2012
32. In The Temple 3/20/2012
33. In The Vale Of Llangollen 3/20/2012
34. Laus Mortis 3/20/2012
35. Laus Virginitatis 3/20/2012
36. Leves Amores 3/20/2012
37. Lillian 3/20/2012
38. The Beggars 3/20/2012
39. Declaration 3/20/2012
40. De Profundis Clemadi 3/20/2012
Best Poem of Arthur Symons

In The Stalls

My life is like a music-hall,
Where, in the impotence of rage,
Chained by enchantment to my stall,
I see myself upon the stage
Dance to amuse a music-hall.

'Tis I that smoke this cigarette,
Lounge here, and laugh for vacancy,
And watch the dancers turn; and yet
It is my very self I see
Across the cloudy cigarette.

My very self that turns and trips,
Painted, pathetically gay,
An empty song upon the lips
In make-believe of holiday:
I, I, this thing that turns and trips!

The light flares in the music-hall,
The light, the ...

Read the full of In The Stalls

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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