In The Orchard.

    "I thought you loved me."    "No, it was only fun."
    "When we stood there, closer than all?"    "Well, the harvest moon
    "Was shining and queer in your hair, and it turned my head."
    "That made you?"    "Yes."    "Just the moon and the light it made
    "Under the tree?"    "Well, your mouth, too."    "Yes, my mouth?"
    "And the quiet there that sang like the drum in the booth.
    "You shouldn't have danced like that."    "Like what?"    "So close,
    "With your head turned up, and the flower in your hair, a rose
    "That smelt all warm."    "I loved you.    I thought you knew
    "I wouldn't have danced like that with any but you."
    "I didn't know.    I thought you knew it was fun."
    "I thought it was love you meant."    "Well, it's done."    "Yes, it's done.
    "I've seen boys stone a blackbird, and watched them drown
    "A kitten ... it clawed at the reeds, and they pushed it down
    "Into the pool while it screamed.    Is that fun, too?"
    "Well, boys are like that ... Your brothers..."    "Yes, I know.
    "But you, so lovely and strong!    Not you!    Not you!"
    "They don't understand it's cruel.    It's only a game."
    "And are girls fun, too?"    "No, still in a way it's the same.
    "It's queer and lovely to have a girl..."    "Go on."
    "It makes you mad for a bit to feel she's your own,
    "And you laugh and kiss her, and maybe you give her a ring,
    "But it's only in fun."    "But I gave you everything."
    "Well, you shouldn't have done it.    You know what a fellow thinks
    "When a girl does that."    "Yes, he talks of her over his drinks
    "And calls her a - "    "Stop that now.    I thought you knew."
    "But it wasn't with anyone else.    It was only you."
    "How did I know?    I thought you wanted it too.
    "I thought you were like the rest.    Well, what's to be done?"
    "To be done?"    "Is it all right?"    "Yes."    "Sure?"    "Yes, but why?"
    "I don't know.    I thought you were going to cry.
    "You said you had something to tell me."    "Yes, I know.
    "It wasn't anything really ... I think I'll go."
    "Yes, it's late.    There's thunder about, a drop of rain
    "Fell on my hand in the dark.    I'll see you again
    "At the dance next week.    You're sure that everything's right?"
    "Yes."    "Well, I'll be going."    "Kiss me..."    "Good night." ... "Good night."

Muriel Stuart

Muriel Stuart was a British poet who gained prominence during the early 20th century. She was highly regarded for her contributions to Georgian poetry, a movement characterized by its eclectic and modernist styles. Stuart's work often grappled with themes of nature, love, and the human condition, reflecting the changing societal landscapes of her time. In addition to her poetry, she penned essays and other literary works, cementing her status as an influential literary figure.

Muriel Stuart

The Tryst.

Muriel Stuart, Simple Poetry

Annunciation.

Muriel Stuart, Simple Poetry

Madala Goes By The Orphanage.

Muriel Stuart, Simple Poetry

The Thief Of Beauty.

Muriel Stuart, Simple Poetry

English

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I.

'And you brought him home.' 'I did, ay Ronald, it rested with me.'
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Leda.

    Do you remember, Leda?


    There are those who love, to whom Love brings
    Great gladness: such thing have not I.
    Love looks and has no mercy, brings
    Long doom to others.    Such was I.
    Heart breaking hand upon the lute,
    Touching one note only ... such were you.
    Who shall play now upon that lute
    Long last made musical by you?
    Sharp bird-beak in the swelling fruit,
    Blind frost upon the eyes of flowers.
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    Or raise the eyelids of those flowers?

    I dare not watch that hidden pool,
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    But round me falls that secret wing,
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My Lady of Verne

It all comes back as the end draws near;
All comes back like a tale of old!
Shall I tell you all? Will you lend an ear?
You, with your face so stern and cold;
You, who have found me dying here ...

Lady Leona's villa at Verne -
You have walked its terraces, where the fount
And statue gleam and the fluted urn;
Its world-old elms, that are avenues gaunt
Of shadow and flame when the West is a-burn.

'T is a lonely region of tarns and trees,
And hollow hills that circle the West;
Haunted of rooks and the far-off sea's
Immemorial vague unrest;
A land of sorrowful memories.

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Love Letters of a Violinist. Letter IV. Yearnings.



Letter IV. Yearnings.


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II.

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