They say — priests say
They say — priests say —
That God loves the world.
Maybe he does,
When the dew is pearl'd
On the emerald grass,
Or the young dawns shine
Would you be satisfied,
Proteus mine,
Just to be loved
When your hair was curled,
As Earth is beloved
When earth is fine?
I love you more
Than God loves the world.
poem by Lesbia Harford
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My lovely pixie, my good companion,
My lovely pixie, my good companion,
You do not love me, bed-mate of mine,
Save as a child loves,
Careless of loving,
Rather preferring raspberry wine.
How can you help it? You were abandoned.
Your mother left you. Your father died.
All your young years of
Pain and desertion
Are not forgotten, here at my side.
poem by Lesbia Harford
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I have golden shoes
I have golden shoes
To make me fleet.
They are like the wind
Underneath my feet.
When my lover's kiss
Is overbold,
I can run away
In my shoes of gold.
Nay, when I am shod
With this bright fire,
I am forced to run
From my own desire.
From the love I love
Whose arms enfold
I must run away
In my shoes of gold.
poem by Lesbia Harford
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White Sunshine
The sun's my fire.
Golden, from a magnificence of blue,
Should be its hue.
But woolly clouds,
Like boarding-house old ladies, come and sit
In front of it.
White sunshine, then,
That has the frosty glimmer of white hair,
Freezes the air.
They must forget,
So self-absorbed are they, so very old,
That I'll be cold.
poem by Lesbia Harford
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A Deity
Sometimes I think God has his days
For being friends.
He says: 'Forgive my careless ways.
No one pretends
I'm always kind; but for today
Do let's be friends.'
And grudgingly I make reply,
'Nice sort of friends.
I think it's time you had a try
To make amends
For things you've done; but after all
Suppose we're friends.'
poem by Lesbia Harford
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Martha
Sometimes I lose
My power of loving for an hour or two,
Then I misuse
My knowledge of friends' secrets to abuse
Them far more heartily than others do.
Then I forget
Their splendid selves, the victories they've won,
And only fret
Because they fail me, when my needs are set
Above the dreams they've fixed their hopes upon.
poem by Lesbia Harford
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Cherry plum blossom in an old tin jug
Cherry plum blossom in an old tin jug —
Oh, it is lovely, beautiful and fair,
With sun on it and little shadows mixed
All in among the fragrant wonder there.
Cherry plum blossom on the workroom bench
Where we can see it all our working hours.
In all my garden days of ladyhood,
I never met girls who so loved sweet flowers.
poem by Lesbia Harford
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I came to live in Sophia Street
I came to live in Sophia Street,
In a little house in Sophia Street
With an inch of floor
Between door and door
And a yard you'd measure in children's feet.
When I'd been ten days in Sophia Street
I remembered its name was Wisdom Street;
For I'd learned much more
Than in all the score
Of years I clamoured for books to eat.
poem by Lesbia Harford
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The Electric Tram To Kew
Through the swift night
I go to my love.
Tram bells are joy bells,
Bidding us move
On a golden path
Beneath balls of fire
Up hill and down dale,
To o'ertake desire.
Past the old shops
That my childhood knew,
Past hidden houses
And fields of dew
Lovely and secret
As thou, my friend,
Who art all heaven
At journey's end.
poem by Lesbia Harford
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Florence kneels down to say her prayers
Florence kneels down to say her prayers
At night.
I wonder what she says and why she cares
To pray at night.
I think when she kneels down to pray
At night
The names that have been on her lips all day
Are there, at night.
She interferes with destinies
At night.
My loves are free to do the things they please
By day, or night.
poem by Lesbia Harford
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