Parentage

    "When Augustus Caesar legislated against the unmarried citizens of Rome, he declared them to be, in some sort, slayers of the people."

    Ah no, not these!
These, who were childless, are not they who gave
So many dead unto the journeying wave,
The helpless nurslings of the cradling seas;
Not they who doomed by infallible decrees
Unnumbered man to the innumerable grave.

    But those who slay
Are fathers. Theirs are armies. Death is theirs,
The death of innocences and despairs;
The dying of the golden and the grey.
The sentence, when these speak it, has no Nay.
And she who slays is she who bears, who bears.

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

Summer In England, 1914

Alice Meynell, Simple Poetry

To A Lost Melody

Alice Meynell, Simple Poetry

Easter Night

Alice Meynell, Simple Poetry

English

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Parentage

"When Augustus Caesar legislated against the unmarried citizens of Rome, he declared them to be, in some sort, slayers of the people."

    Ah no, not these!
These, who were childless, are not they who gave
So many dead unto the journeying wave,
The helpless nurslings of the cradling seas;
Not they who doomed by infallible decrees
Unnumbered man to the innumerable grave.

    But those who slay
Are fathers. Theirs are armies. Death is theirs,
The death of innocences and despairs;
The dying of the golden and the grey.
The sentence, when these speak it, has no Nay.
And she who slays is she who bears, who bears.

Alice Christiana Thompson Meynell

A Father Of Women

                        AD SOROREM E. B.

        "Thy father was transfused into thy blood."

                                    Dryden: Ode to Mrs. Anne Killigrew.

                Our father works in us,
    The daughters of his manhood.    Not undone
    Is he, not wasted, though transmuted thus,
                And though he left no son.

                Therefore on him I cry
    To arm me: "For my delicate mind a casque,
    A breastplate for my heart, courage to die,
                Of thee, captain, I ask.

                "Nor strengthen only; press
    A finger on this violent blood and pale,
    Over this rash will let thy tenderness
                A while pause, and prevail.

                "And she...

Alice Meynell

The Children

These were our children who died for our lands: they were dear in our sight.
We have only the memory left of their hometreasured sayings and laughter.
The price of our loss shall be paid to our hands, not another's hereafter.
Neither the Alien nor Priest shall decide on it. That is our right.
But who shall return us the children?
At the hour the Barbarian chose to disclose his pretences,
And raged against Man, they engaged, on the breasts that they bared for us,
The first felon-stroke of the sword he had longtime prepared for us,
Their bodies were all our defence while we wrought our defences.

They bought us anew with their blood, forbearing to blame us,
Those hours which we had not made good when the Judgment o'ercame us.
They believed us and perished for it. Our statecraft, ou...

Rudyard

The Modern Mother

    Oh what a kiss
With filial passion overcharged is this!
    To this misgiving breast
The child runs, as a child ne'er ran to rest
Upon the light heart and the unoppressed.

    Unhoped, unsought!
A little tenderness, this mother thought
    The utmost of her meed
She looked for gratitude; content indeed
With thus much that her nine years' love had bought.

    Nay, even with less.
This mother, giver of life, death, peace, distress,
    Desired ah! not so much
Thanks as forgiveness; and the passing touch
Expected, and the slight, the brief caress.

    Oh filial light
Strong in these childish eyes, these new, these bright
    Intelligible stars! Their rays
Are near the constant earth, guides in the maze,
Natural, true, keen in ...

Alice Meynell

The Two Questions

                "A riddling world!" one cried.
    "If pangs must be, would God that they were sent
    To the impure, the cruel, and passed aside
                The holy innocent!"

                But I, "Ah no, no, no!
    Not the clean heart transpierced; not tears that fall
    For a childs agony; not a martyrs woe;
                Not these, not these appal.

                "Not docile motherhood,
    Dutiful, frequent, closed in all distress;
    Not shedding of the unoffending blood;
                Not little joy grown less;

                "Not all-benign old age
    With dotage mocked; not gallantry that faints
    And still pursues; not the vile heritage
                Of sins disease in saints;

                "Not thes...

Alice Meynell

Length Of Days To The Early Dead In Battle

                There is no length of days
    But yours, boys who were children once.    Of old
    The past beset you in your childish ways,
                With sense of Time untold!

                What have you then forgone?
    A history?    This you had.    Or memories?
    These, too, you had of your far-distant dawn.
                No further dawn seems his,

                The old man who shares with you,
    But has no more, no more.    Times mystery
    Did once for him the most that it can do:
                He has had infancy.

                And all his dreams, and all
    His loves for mighty Nature, sweet and few,
    Are but the dwindling past he can recall
                Of what his childhood knew.

               ...

Alice Meynell