Gravikty By Harold Monro

Gravikty I Fit for perpetual worship is the power That holds our bodies safely to the earth. When people talk of their domestic gods, Then…

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Two Poems – (Numbers I And X In ‘strange Meetings) By Harold Monro

Two Poems – (Numbers I And X In ‘strange Meetings) I If suddenly a clod of earth should rise, And walk about, and breathe, and…

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Suburb By Harold Monro

Suburb Dull and hard the low wind creaks Among the rustling pampas plumes. Drearily the year consumes Its fifty-two insipid weeks. Most of the grey-green…

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Great City By Harold Monro

Great City When I returned at sunset, The serving-maid was singing softly Under the dark stairs, and in the house Twilight had entered like a…

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Week-End By Harold Monro

Week-End I The train! The twleve o’clock for paradise. Hurry, or it will try to creep away. Out in the country every one is wise:…

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Milk For The Cat By Harold Monro

Milk For The Cat When the tea is brought at five o’clock, And all the neat curtains are drawn with care, The little black cat…

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Dog By Harold Monro

Dog 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….

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Unknown Country By Harold Monro

Unknown Country Here, in this other world, they come and go With easy dream-like movements to and fro. They stare through lovely eyes, yet do…

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London Interior By Harold Monro

London Interior Autumn is in the air, The children are playing everywhere. One dare not open this old door too wide; It is so dark…

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Children Of Love By Harold Monro

Children Of Love The holy boy Went from his mother out in the cool of the day Over the sun-parched fields And in among the…

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The Silent Pool By Harold Monro

The Silent Pool I have discovered finally to-day This home that I have called my own Is built of straw and clay, Not, as I…

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Man Carrying Bale By Harold Monro

Man Carrying Bale The tough hand closes gently on the load; Out of the mind, a voice Calls ‘Lift!’ and the arms, remembering well their…

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Youth In Arms By Harold Monro

Youth In Arms HAPPY boy, happy boy, David the immortal-willed, Youth a thousand thousand times Slain, but not once killed, Swaggering again today In the…

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Thistledown By Harold Monro

Thistledown This might have been a place for sleep, But, as from that small hollow there Hosts of bright thistledown begin Their dazzling journey through…

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Midnight Lamentation By Harold Monro

Midnight Lamentation When you and I go down Breathless and cold, Our faces both worn back To earthly mould, How lonely we shall be! What…

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The Rebellious Vine By Harold Monro

The Rebellious Vine One day, the vine That clomb on god’s own house Cried, “I will not grow And, ‘I will not grow,’ And, I…

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Living By Harold Monro

Living Slow bleak awakening from the morning dream Brings me in contact with the sudden day. I am alive – this I. I let my…

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The Nightingale Near The House By Harold Monro

The Nightingale Near The House Here is the soundless cypress on the lawn: It listens, listens. Taller trees beyond Listen. The moon at the unruffled…

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Lake Leman By Harold Monro

Lake Leman It is the sacred hour: above the far Low emerald hills that northward fold, Calmly, upon the blue the evening star Floats, wreathed…

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Overheard On A Salmarsh By Harold Monro

Overheard On A Salmarsh Nymph, nymph, what are your beads? Green glass, goblin. Why do you stare at them? Give them me. No. Give them…

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Introspection By Harold Monro

Introspection THAT house across the road is full of ghosts. The windows, all inquisitive, look inward. All are shut. I’ve never seen a body in…

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The Bird At Dawn By Harold Monro

The Bird At Dawn What I saw was just one eye In the dawn as I was going : A bird can carry all the…

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Goldfish By Harold Monro

Goldfish They are the angels of that watery world, With so much knowledge that they just aspire To move themselves on golden fins, Or fill…

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Solitude By Harold Monro

Solitude WHEN you have tidied all things for the night, And while your thoughts are fading to their sleep, You’ll pause a moment in the…

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Every Thing By Harold Monro

Every Thing Since man has been articulate, Mechanical, improvidently wise, (Servant of Fate), He has not understood the little cries And foreign conversations of the…

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Real Property By Harold Monro

Real Property Tell me about that harvest field. Oh! Fifty acres of living bread. The colour has painted itself in my heart; The form is…

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