Poems by Alice Christiana Thompson Meynell

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Along the graceless grass of town
Listen, and when thy hand this paper presses,
If I should quit thee, sacrifice, forswear,
I saw a tract of ocean locked in-land
Farewell has long been said; I have forgone thee;
There's a feast undated yet:
Home, home from the horizon far and clear,
We build with strength the deep tower-wall
Brief, on a flying night,
The child not yet is lulled to rest.
No new delights to our desire
Thou art the Way.
The leaves are many under my feet,
O Spring, I know thee! Seek for sweet surprise
Rorate Coeli desuper, et nubes pluant Justum.
The colour of the electric lights has a strange effect in giving a complementary tint to the air in the early evening.--ESSAY ON LONDON.
"When Augustus Caesar legislated against the unmarried citizens of Rome, he declared them to be, in some sort, slayers of the people."
Farewell to one now silenced quite,
As, when the seaward ebbing tide doth pour
I must not think of thee; and, tired yet strong,
I had not seen my son's dear face
As the inhastening tide doth roll,
My Fair, no beauty of thine will last
All my stars forsake me,
Your own fair youth, you care so little for it,
I touched the heart that loved me as a player
A poet of one mood in all my lays,
Rich meanings of the prophet-Spring adorn,
My heart shall be thy garden. Come, my own,
O'er the Campagna it is dim warm weather;
Like him who met his own eyes in the river,
Who knows what days I answer for to-day:
I have no secrets from thee, lyre sublime,
We never meet; yet we meet day by day
Slight as thou art, thou art enough to hide,
Who looked for thee, thou little song of mine?
The Lady Poverty was fair:
Oh what a kiss
I come from nothing; but from where
As the full moon shining there
In my thought I see you stand with a path on either hand,
A flock of winds came winging from the North,
She walks--the lady of my delight--
Whose is the speech
Thou art not dead, O sweet lost melody,
Thou who singest through the earth,
Oh, not more subtly silence strays
Beloved, thou art like a tune that idle fingers
Given, not lent,
Thou man, first-comer, whose wide arms entreat,
So humble things Thou hast borne for us, O God,
"You never attained to Him?" "If to attain
Another day awakes. And who--
Why wilt thou chide,