Sometimes I am too tired
Sometimes I am too tired
To think of you.
Today was such a day,
But then I knew
Today, for certain, you'd be weary too
You there in hospital
With health to seek—
And me at my machine
Too tired to speak—
We're very funny lovers of a week.
poem by Lesbia Harford
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My mission in the world
My mission in the world
Is to prolong
Rapture by turning it
Into a song.
A song of liberty
Bound by no rule!
No marble meaning's mine
Fixed for a school.
My singing ecstasy
Winged for the flight,
Each will hear differently,
And hear aright.
poem by Lesbia Harford
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A Meaning Learnt
I'm not his wife. I am his paramour:
His wayside love, picked up in journeying:
Rose of the hedgerows; fragrant, till he fling
Me down beside the ditch, a drooped thing
Some country boy may stick into his hat.
A paramour has no more use than that.
poem by Lesbia Harford
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I have to make a soul for one
I have to make a soul for one
Who lost his soul in childhood's hour.
And I'm not sure—not really sure—
If I have power.
I don't know whether souls are made
With laughter or with faith or pain
But though I fail a thousand times,
I'll try again.
poem by Lesbia Harford
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How funny it would be if dreamy I
How funny it would be if dreamy I
Should leave one book behind me when I die
And that a book of Law—this silly thing
Just written for the money it will bring.
I do hope, when it's finished, I'll have time
For other books and better spurts of rhyme.
poem by Lesbia Harford
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Sometimes I wish that I were Helen-fair
Sometimes I wish that I were Helen-fair
And wise as Pallas,
That I might have most royal gifts to pour
In love's sweet chalice.
Then I reflect my dear love is no god
But mortal only
And in this heavenly wife might deem himself
Not blest, but lonely.
poem by Lesbia Harford
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O great golden head lie in my lap
O great golden head lie in my lap,
Sweet, sweet, lie there.
Sleep and I'll watch thee lest evil behap.
Sweet, sweet and fair.
O great golden head lie on my breast,
Sleep, sleep thou there,
Who in thy beauty hast stolen my rest,
Sweet, sweet and fair.
poem by Lesbia Harford
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Dearest, dearest
Dearest, dearest,
Bother the slow hours
That hold and keep me
From the leafy bowers
You make more lovely than a storm of flowers.
Dearest, dearest,
If they let me go
I'd hasten to you
Where the waters flow
In among the shadows and the dreams we know.
poem by Lesbia Harford
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Why does she put me to many indignities
Why does she put me to many indignities,
Shifts to prevent myself thinking upon her,
My golden Katie, who loveth not kisses?
I wear my new dresses and put on silk stockings,
All to prevent myself thinking upon her,
Who is more lovely than fair river-lilies.
poem by Lesbia Harford
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O little year, cram full of duty
O little year, cram full of duty,
Rapture and sorrow, too,
Show me the way from old paths of beauty
Into the fields of dew.
Strange lorn fields where the moon goes riding
Over a lonely sky.
Kind little year, in your onward gliding
Let me not pass them by.
poem by Lesbia Harford
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