Nurse Edith Cavell

Two oclock, the morning of October 12th, 1915.

                To her accustomed eyes
    The midnight-morning brought not such a dread
    As thrills the chance-awakened head that lies
    In trivial sleep on the habitual bed.

                Twas yet some hours ere light;
    And many, many, many a break of day
    Had she outwatched the dying; but this night
    Shortened her vigil was, briefer the way.

                By dial of the clock
    Twas day in the dark above her lonely head.
    "This day thou shalt be with Me."    Ere the cock
    Announced that day she met the Immortal Dead.

Alice Meynell

Alice Meynell was an English writer, editor, critic, and suffragist, now remembered mainly as a poet. Born on September 11, 1847, she grew up in a literary family and published her first book of poems, "Preludes," in 1875. She married the editor Wilfrid Meynell in 1877 and joined him in literary and journalistic endeavors. Meynell's worked in the women's suffrage movement, advocating for her rights through her writings. She died on November 27, 1922, leaving behind a legacy of lyrical and meditative poetry.

Alice Meynell

In Early Spring

Alice Meynell, Simple Poetry

An Unmarked Festival

Alice Meynell, Simple Poetry

Meditation

Alice Meynell, Simple Poetry

A Thrush Before Dawn

Alice Meynell, Simple Poetry

English

Suggested Poems

Explore a curated selection of verses that share themes, styles, and emotional resonance with the poem you've just read.

Easter Night

    All night had shout of men and cry
                Of woeful women filled His way;
    Until that noon of sombre sky
                On Friday, clamour and display
    Smote Him; no solitude had He,
    No silence, since Gethsemane.

    Public was Death; but Power, but Might,
                But Life again, but Victory,
    Were hushed within the dead of night,
                The shutterd dark, the secrecy.
    And all alone, alone, alone
    He rose again behind the stone.

Alice Meynell

The Dead And The Living One

The dead woman lay in her first night's grave,
And twilight fell from the clouds' concave,
And those she had asked to forgive forgave.

The woman passing came to a pause
By the heaped white shapes of wreath and cross,
And looked upon where the other was.

And as she mused there thus spoke she:
"Never your countenance did I see,
But you've been a good good friend to me!"

Rose a plaintive voice from the sod below:
"O woman whose accents I do not know,
What is it that makes you approve me so?"

"O dead one, ere my soldier went,
I heard him saying, with warm intent,
To his friend, when won by your blandishment:

"'I would change for that lass here and now!
And if I return I may break my vow
To my present Love, and contrive somehow

Thomas Hardy

Summer In England, 1914

    On London fell a clearer light;
            Caressing pencils of the sun
    Defined the distances, the white
            Houses transfigured one by one,
    The "long, unlovely street" impearled.
    O what a sky has walked the world!

    Most happy year!    And out of town
            The hay was prosperous, and the wheat;
    The silken harvest climbed the down;
            Moon after moon was heavenly-sweet
    Stroking the bread within the sheaves,
    Looking twixt apples and their leaves.

    And while this rose made round her cup,
            The armies died convulsed.    And when
    This chaste young silver sun went up
            Softly, a thousand shattered men,
    One wet corruption, heaped the plain,
    After a league-long ...

Alice Meynell

The Merciful Hand

Written to Miss Alice L. F. Fitzgerald, Edith Cavell memorial nurse, going to the front.


Your fine white hand is Heaven's gift
To cure the wide world, stricken sore,
Bleeding at the breast and head,
Tearing at its wounds once more.

Your white hand is a prophecy,
A living hope that Christ shall come
And make the nations merciful,
Hating the bayonet and drum.

Each desperate burning brain you soothe,
Or ghastly broken frame you bind,
Brings one day nearer our bright goal,
The love-alliance of mankind.

Vachel Lindsay

The Legend Of The Iron Cross.

"There dwelt a nun in Dryburgh bower
Who ne'er beheld the day."


Twilight o'er the East is stealing,
And the sun is in the vale:
'T is a fitting moment, stranger,
To relate a wondrous tale.

'Neath this moss-grown rock and hoary
We will pause awhile to rest;
See, the drowsy surf no longer
Beats against its aged breast.

Years ago, traditions tell us,
When rebellion stirred the land,
And the fiery cross was carried
O'er the hills from band to band,--

And the yeoman at its summons
Left his yet unfurrowed field,
And the leader from his fortress
Sallied forth with sword and shield,--

Where the iron cross is standing
On yon rude and crumbling wall,
Dwelt a chieftain's orphan daughter,
In her broad ancestral ...

Mary Gardiner Horsford

Mary Of Magdala. (Hymn)

"While it was yet dark."

Mary of Magdala, when the moon had set,
Forth to the garden that was with night dews wet,
Fared in the dark - woe-wan and bent was she,
'Neath many pounds' weight of fragrant spicery.

Mary of Magdala, in her misery,
"Who shall roll the stone up from yon door?" quoth she;
And trembling down the steep she went, and wept sore,
Because her dearest Lord was, alas! no more.

Her burden she let fall, lo! the stone was gone;
Light was there within, out to the dark it shone;
With an angel's face the dread tomb was bright,
The which she beholding fell for sore affright.

Mary of Magdala, in her misery,
Heard the white vision speak, and did straightway flee;
And an idle tale seem'd the wild words she said,
And nought ...

Jean Ingelow