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O gentle vision in the dawn: My spirit over faint cool water glides, Child of the day, To thee;…
Harold Edward Monro was a British poet, the proprietor of the Poetry Bookshop in London which helped many famous poets bring their work before the public. Monro was born in Brussels, but his parents were Scottish. He was educated at Radley and at Caius College, Cambridge. His first collection of poetry was published in 1906. He founded a poetry magazine, The Poetry Review, which was to be very influential. In 1912, he founded the Poetry Bookshop in Bloomsbury, London, publishing new collections at his own expense and rarely making a profit, as well as providing a welcoming environment for readers and poets alike. Several poets, including Wilfred Owen, actually lodged in the rooms above the bookshop. Monro was also closely involved with Edward Marsh in the publication of Georgian Poetry. Although homosexual, he married before World War I, but he and his wife separated and were divorced in 1916. In 1917, he was called up for military service, a very unhappy experience for him. His health soon gave way, and he returned to run the Poetry Bookshop in 1919. He was not a mainstream war poet, but did occasionally write about the subject. In 1920, he married his long-standing assistant, Alida Klementaski. Their relationship seems to have been an intellectual rather than a physical one. Monro continued to suffer from alcoholism, which contributed to his early death.)
Harold Monro şiirleri
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The holy boy Went from his mother out in the cool of the day Over the sun-parched fields And in among the olives shining green and shining grey.…
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You little friend, your nose is ready; you sniff, Asking for that expected walk, (Your nostrils full of the happy rabbit-whiff) And almost talk.…
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Since man has been articulate, Mechanical, improvidently wise, (Servant of Fate), He has not understood the little cries…
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They are the angels of that watery world, With so much knowledge that they just aspire To move themselves on golden fins, Or fill their paradise with fire…
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I Fit for perpetual worship is the power That holds our bodies safely to the earth.…
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I Fit for perpetual worship is the power That holds our bodies safely to the earth.…
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When I returned at sunset, The serving-maid was singing softly Under the dark stairs, and in the house Twilight had entered like a moon-ray.…
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THAT house across the road is full of ghosts. The windows, all inquisitive, look inward. All are shut. I've never seen a body in the house.…
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It is the sacred hour: above the far Low emerald hills that northward fold, Calmly, upon the blue the evening star Floats, wreathed in dusky gold.…
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Slow bleak awakening from the morning dream Brings me in contact with the sudden day. I am alive – this I. I let my fingers move along my body.…
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Autumn is in the air, The children are playing everywhere. One dare not open this old door too wide;…
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The tough hand closes gently on the load; Out of the mind, a voice Calls 'Lift!' and the arms, remembering well their work, Lengthen and pause for help.…
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When you and I go down Breathless and cold, Our faces both worn back To earthly mould,…
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When the tea is brought at five o'clock, And all the neat curtains are drawn with care, The little black cat with bright green eyes Is suddenly purring there.…
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