Frances Darwin Cornford
Frances Cornford should not be confused with her husband Francis Cornford.
Frances Crofts Cornford (née Darwin) was an English poet.
She was the daughter of the botanist Francis Darwin and Ellen Crofts, born into the Darwin — Wedgwood family. She was a granddaughter of the British naturalist Charles Darwin. Her elder half-brother was the golf writer Bernard Darwin. She was raised in Cambridge, among a dense social network of aunts, uncles, and cousins, and was educated privately.
In 1909, Frances Darwin married Francis Cornford, a classicist and poet. They had 5 children: Helena (b. 1913), John (1915-1936), a poet and Communist who was killed in the Spanish ... more »
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Frances Darwin Cornford Poems
The Guitarist Tunes Up
With what attentive courtesy he bent Over his instrument; Not as a lordly conquerer who could Command both wire and wood,
MY father's friend came once to tea. He laughed and talked. He spoke to me. But in another week they said
I Had a little dog, and my dog was very small; He licked me in the face, and he answered to my call;
To a Lady Seen From the Train
O why do you walk through the fields in gloves, Missing so much and so much? O fat white woman whom nobody loves,
On Rupert Brooke
A young Apollo, golden-haired, Stands dreaming on the verge of strife, Magnificently unprepared For the long littleness of life.
I laid me down upon the shore And dreamed a little space; I heard the great waves break and roar; The sun was on my face.
The Coast: Norfolk
As on the highway's quiet edge He mows the grass beside the hedge, The old man has for company The distant, grey, salt-smelling sea,
The poplars in the fields of France Are golden ladies come to dance ; But yet to see them there is none But I and the September sun.
Rhyme For A Phonetician
Brave English language, you are strong as trees, Yet intricate and stately. Thus one sees Through branches clear-embroidered stars. You please
Autumn Morning at Cambridge
I ran out in the morning, when the air was clean and new, And all the grass was glittering and grey with autumn dew, I ran out to the apple tree and pulled an apple down, And all the bells were ringing in the old grey town.
I wakened on my hot, hard bed; Upon the pillow lay my head; Beneath the pillow I could hear My little watch was ticking clear.
The thistles on the sandy flats Are courtiers with crimson hats ; The ragworts, growing up so straight, Are emperors who stand in state,
The New-born Baby's Song
When I was twenty inches long, I could not hear the thrush's song; The radiance of the morning skies Was most displeasing to my eyes.
The Shadows flickering, the daylight dying, And I upon the old red sofa lying, The great brown shadows leaping up the wall, The sparrows twittering; and that is all.
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The Guitarist Tunes Up
With what attentive courtesy he bent
Over his instrument;
Not as a lordly conquerer who could
Command both wire and wood,
But as a man with a loved woman might,
Inquiring with delight
What slight essential things she had to say
Before they started, he and she, to play.