Closing Time: Public Library
At ten o'clock the great gong sounds its dread
Prelude to splendour. I push back my chair,
And all the people leave their books. We flock,
Still acquiescent, down the marble stair
Into the dark where we can't read. And thought
Swoops down insatiate through the starry air.
poem by Lesbia Harford
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Weekend At Mt. Dandenong
Frolic mountain winds
Innocent and shy,
Kiss my darling's cheek
As they scurry by.
Little fragrant leaves
With the dawn astir,
Make a million songs
Full of love for her.
Will she wake or sleep
These two nights she'll spend
Up the mountain-side,
My dear truant friend?
poem by Lesbia Harford
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The Folk I Love
I do hate the folk I love-
They hurt so.
Their least word and act may be
Source of woe.
'Won't you come to tea with me?'
'Not today'
I'm so tired, I've been to church
Such folk say.
All the dreary afternoon
I must clutch
At the strength to love like them
Not too much
poem by Lesbia Harford
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Summer Lightning
Just now, as warm day faded from our sight
Hosts of archangels, fleet
On lighting-winged feet
Passed by, all glimmering in the busy night
Sweet angels, bringing no blinding truth to birth
Give us no messages
From heavenly palaces;
Leave us our dark trees and our starlight earth.
poem by Lesbia Harford
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You may have other loves,
You may have other loves,
Red mouths to kiss.
Why should you lose
That loveliness for this?
No loveliness of mine
That comes and goes
Wild-fuchsia-like,
Need blind you to the rose.
So I, who bless
Your hot and passionate ways,
Still need the starry loves
Of virgin days.
poem by Lesbia Harford
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A lady and I were walking
A lady and I were walking
Where waters flow;
A lady and I were talking
Softly and slow.
This is what you were saying,
Lady of mine,
'I will be sad without him,
Yea, I will pine.
But he would never leave me
If he were free.
That's what my love in prison
Whispered to me.'
poem by Lesbia Harford
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Summer Lightning
Just now, as warm day faded from our sight
Hosts of archangels, fleet
On lighting-winged feet
Passed by, all glimmering in the busy night
Sweet angels, bringing no blinding truth to birth
Give us no messages
From heavenly palaces;
Leave us our dark trees and our starlight earth.
poem by Lesbia Harford
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Revolution
She is not of the fireside,
My lovely love;
Nor books, nor even a cradle,
She bends above.
No, she is bent with lashes,
Her flesh is torn.
From blackness into blackness
She walks forlorn.
But factories and prisons
Are far more fair
Than home or palace gardens
If she is there.
poem by Lesbia Harford
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Emmie, Emmie Adams
Emmie, Emmie Adams,
With her insolent air,
Tied a little bit of rag
In her yellow hair.
When Lena, wondering,
Asked why it was there,
Emmie said she didn't know
And she didn't care.
I think Emmie Adams,
Though you are so fair,
That must be the devil's horn
In your yellow hair.
poem by Lesbia Harford
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To look across at Moira gives me pleasure
To look across at Moira gives me pleasure.
She has a red tape measure.
Her dress is black and all the workroom's dreary,
And I am weary.
But that's like blood—like a thin blood stream trickling
Like a fire quickening.
It's Revolution. Ohé, I take pleasure
In Moira's red tape measure.
poem by Lesbia Harford
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