Harold Monro(14 March 1879 - 16 March 1932 / Brussels)
- by Harold Monro40
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 hay, on the buttercups; The rising moon, The scent of early night, The songs, the echoes, Dogs barking, Day closing, Gradual slumber, Sweet rest.
When all the lamps were lighted in the town I passed into the street ways and I watched, Wakeful, almost happy, And half the night I wandered in the street.
Overheard on a Salmarsh
- by Harold Monro38
Nymph, nymph, what are your beads? Green glass, goblin. Why do you stare at them? Give them me. No. Give them me. Give them me. No. Then I will howl all night in the reeds, Lie in the mud and howl for them.
Goblin, why do you love them so?
They are better than stars or water, Better than voices of winds that sing, Better than any man's fair daughter, Your green glass beads on a silver ring.
Hush, I stole them out of the moon. Give me your beads, I want them. No.
I will howl in the deep lagoon For your green glass beads, I love them so. Give thme me. Give them. No.
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