Alice Meynell
Alice Meynell
Alice Christiana Gertrude Meynellwas an English writer, editor, critic, and suffragist, now remembered mainly as a poet...
NationalityEnglish
ProfessionPoet
Date of Birth22 September 1847
doors draw memories near
Flocks of the memories of the day draw near / The dovecot doors of sleep.
english-poet further man renew turn
Let a man turn to his own childhood - no further - if he will renew his sense of remoteness, and of the mystery of change.
childhood further man mystery renew turn
Let a man turn to his own childhood -- no further -- if he will renew his sense of remoteness, and of the mystery of change.
delight lady walks
She walks - the lady of my delight - / A shepherdess of sheep.
early nature peaceful
There is nothing in the world more peaceful than apple-leaves with an early moon.
time bells towers
From the shaken tower A flock of bells take flight, And go with the hour.
rome clouds age
Rome in the ages, dimmed with all her towers, / Floats in the mist, a little cloud at tether.
pain heart effort
Now, in our opinion no author should be blamed for obscurity, nor should any pains be grudged in the effort to understand him, provided that he has done his best to be intelligible. Difficult thoughts are quite distinct from difficult words. Difficulty of thought is the very heart of poetry.
echoes bird utterance
With mimicry, with praises, with echoes, or with answers, the poets have all but outsung the bell. The inarticulate bell has found too much interpretation, too many rhymes professing to close with her inaccessible utterance, and to agree with her remote tongue. The bell, like the bird, is a musician pestered with literature.
loneliness ocean sea
But, visiting Sea, your love doth press / And reach in further than you know, / And fills all these; and, when you go, / There's loneliness in loneliness.
lying night mind
My day-mind can endure / Upright, in hope, all it must undergo. / But O, afraid, unsure, / My night-mind waking lies too low, too low.
light bishops boots
I have known some grim bells, with not a single joyous note in the whole peal, so forced to hurry for a human festival, with their harshness made light of, as though the Bishop of Hereford had again been forced to dance in his boots by a merry highwayman.
life-is ifs
If life is not always poetical, it is at least metrical.
art laughter would-be
Assuredly it would be a pity if laughter should ever become, like rhetoric and the arts, a habit.