Harold Monro Poems
|1.||Child Of Dawn||1/1/2004|
|2.||Children Of Love||4/21/2010|
|12.||Man Carrying Bale||4/21/2010|
|14.||Milk For The Cat||4/21/2010|
|15.||Overheard On A Salmarsh||4/21/2010|
|19.||The Bird At Dawn||4/21/2010|
|20.||The Nightingale Near The House||4/21/2010|
|21.||The Rebellious Vine||4/21/2010|
|22.||The Silent Pool||4/23/2012|
|24.||Two Poems: (Numbers I And X In 'strange Meetings.')||4/21/2010|
|27.||Youth In Arms||4/21/2010|
When I returned at sunset,
The serving-maid was singing softly
Under the dark stairs, and in the house
Twilight had entered like a moon-ray.
Tune was so dead I could not understand
The meaning of midday or of midnight,
But like falling waters, falling, hissing, falling,
Silence seemed an everlasting sound.
I sat in my room,
And watched sunset,
And saw starlight.
I heard the tramp of homing men,
And the last call of the last child;
Then a lone bird twittered,
And suddenly, beyond the housetops,
I imagined dew in the country,
In the ...
You little friend, your nose is ready; you sniff,
Asking for that expected walk,
(Your nostrils full of the happy rabbit-whiff)
And almost talk.
And so the moment becomes a moving force;
Coats glide down from their pegs in the humble dark;
The sticks grow live to the stride of their vagrant course.
You scamper the stairs,