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The Poems of Alice Meynell

Index by First Line

Across what calm of tropic seas
A flock of winds came winging from the North
Ah! no, not these!
All my stars forsake me
Along the graceless grass of town
All night had shout of men and cry
A mirror faced a mirror: ire and hate
And will they cast the altars down
Another day awakes. And who
A poet of one mood in all my lays
“A riddling world!” one cried
As the full moon shining there
As the inhastening tide doth roll
As, when the seaward ebbing tide doth pour
Autumn is weary, halt, and old
A voice peals in this end of night
Behold
Black mountains pricked with pointed pine
Brief, on a flying night
Dear are some hidden things
Dear fool, be true to me!
Dear laws, come to my breast!
Farewell has long been said; I have foregone thee
“Farewells!” O what a word!
Farewell to one now silenced quite
Forth, to the alien gravity
From dawn to dusk, and from dusk to dawn
Given, not lent
Here are my thoughts, alive within this fold
Home, home from the horizon far and clear
I come from nothing; but from where
I dreamt (no “dream” awake—a dream indeed)
If I should quit thee, sacrifice, forswear
I go by road, I go by street
I had not seen my son’s dear face
I must not think of thee; and, tired yet strong
Into the rescued world newcomer
I saw a tract of ocean locked inland
I saw the throng, so deeply separate
It knows but will not tell
I touched the heart that loved me as a player
It was the south: mid-everything
Like him who met his own eyes in the river
Listen, and when thy hand this paper presses
Longer than thine, than thine
Long life to thee, long virtue, long delight
Lord, Thou hast crushed Thy tender ones, o’er-thrown
Lord, where are Thy prerogatives?
Luminous passions reign
Man pays that debt with new munificence
Master, thy enterprise
My Fair, no beauty of thine will last
My heart shall be thy garden. Come, my own
No “fan is in his hand” for these
No new delights to our desire
No sudden thing of glory and fear
Not, Silence, for thine idleness I raise
Not that the earth is changing, O my God!
Not wish, nor fear, nor quite expectancy
Not yet was winter come to earth’s soft floor
O delicate! Even in wooded lands
O’er the Campagna it is dim warm weather
O heavenly colour, London town
Oh, man’s capacity
Oh, not more subtly silence strays
Oh, what a kiss
One of the crowd went up
One wept whose only child was dead
On London fell a clearer light
O our young ancestor
O poet of the time to be
O spring, I know thee! Seek for sweet surprise
Our father works in us
O what a miracle wind is this
Quiet form of silent nun
Rich meanings of the prophet-Spring adorn
She walks—the lady of my delight
Slight as thou art, thou art enough to hide
So humble things Thou hast borne for us, O God
That seeking Prelude found its unforetold
The child not yet is lulled to rest
The Lady Poverty was fair
The leaves are many under my feet
The light young man who was to die
The paralytic man has dropped in death
The poet’s imageries are noble ways
There is a bolder way
There is no length of days
There’s a feast, undated, yet
There’s much afoot in heaven and earth this year
The rooted liberty of flowers in breeze
The wind is blind
Thou art the Way
Thou inmost, ultimate
Thou man, first-comer, whose wide arms entreat
Thou who singest through the earth
Thou wouldst not part thy spoil
Three times have I beheld
’Tis royal and authentic June
To her accustomed eyes
To his devoted heart
Two men went up to pray; and one gave thanks
Unlike the youth that all men say
Virgil stayed Dante with a wayside word
With this ambiguous earth
We build with strength the deep tower wall
We do not find Him on the difficult earth
We never meet; yet we meet day by day
We too (one cried), we too
Who knows what days I answer for to-day?
Who looked for thee, thou little song of mine?
Whose is the speech
Who then is “he”?
Why wilt thou chide
Wide waters in the waste; or, out of reach
Yes, from the ingrate heart, the street
You bid me hold my peace
You “made a virtue of necessity”
“You never attained to Him?”
Your own fair youth, you care so little for it
 
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Lane Core Jr. (lane@elcore.net)		 http://poetry.elcore.net/CatholicPoets/Meynell/EP_LrP_LtP_FirstLine.html
Created April 15, 2001; not revised.