The Cloudberry.

    Give me no coil of dæmon flowers -
    Pale Messalines that faint and brood
    Through the spent secret twilight hours
    On their strange feasts of blood.

    Give me wild things of moss and peat -
    The gipsy flower that bravely goes,
    The heather's little hard, brown feet,
    And the black eyes of sloes.

    But most of all the cloudberry
    That offers in her clean, white cup
    The melting snows - the cloudberry!
    Where the great winds go up

    To the hushed peak whose shadow fills
    The air with silence calm and wide -
    She lives, the Dian of the hills,
    And the streams course beside.

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

In Memory Of Douglas Vernon Cow

Muriel Stuart, Simple Poetry

Man And His Makers.

Muriel Stuart, Simple Poetry

Enough.

Muriel Stuart, Simple Poetry

Sic Transit -

Muriel Stuart, 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.

The Seed Shop.

    Here in a quiet and dusty room they lie,
    Faded as crumbled stone or shifting sand,
    Forlorn as ashes, shrivelled, scentless, dry -
    Meadows and gardens running through my hand.

    Dead that shall quicken at the call of Spring,
    Sleepers to stir beneath June's magic kiss,
    Though birds pass over, unremembering,
    And no bee seek here roses that were his.

    In this brown husk a dale of hawthorn dreams
    A cedar in this narrow cell is thrust
    That will drink deeply of a century's streams,
    These lilies shall make summer on my dust.

    Here in their safe and simple house of death,
    Sealed in their shells a million roses leap;
    Here I can blow a garden with my breath,
    And in my hand a forest lies asleep.

Muriel Stuart

Chloris.

Air - "My lodging is on the cold ground."


I.

    My Chloris, mark how green the groves,
        The primrose banks how fair:
    The balmy gales awake the flowers,
        And wave thy flaxen hair.

II.

    The lav'rock shuns the palace gay,
        And o'er the cottage sings;
    For nature smiles as sweet, I ween,
        To shepherds as to kings

III.

    Let minstrels sweep the skilfu' string
        In lordly lighted ha':
    The shepherd stops his simple reed,
        Blythe, in the birken shaw.

IV.

    The princely revel may survey
        Our rustic dance wi' scorn;
    But are their hearts as light as ours,
        Beneath the milk-white thorn?

V.

    ...

Robert Burns

O Come To The Meadows.

O come to the meadows! I'll show you where
    Primrose and violet blow,
And the hawthorn spreads its blossoms fair,
    White as the driven snow.
I'll show you where the daisies dot
    With silver stars the lea,
The orchis, and forget-me-not,
    The flower of memory!

The gold-cup and the meadow-sweet,
    That love the river's side,
The reed that bows the wave to meet,
    And sighs above the tide.
The stately flag that gaily rears
    Aloft its yellow crest,
The lily in whose cup the tears
    Of morn delight to rest.

The first in Nature's dainty wreath,
    We'll cull the brier-rose,
The crowfoot and the purple heath,
    And pink that sweetly blows.
The hare-bell with its airy flowers
    Shall deck my Laura's breast,...

Susanna Moodie

Phoebe Of The Scottish Glen

Agen I'll take my idle pen
And sing my bonny mountain maid--
Sweet Phoebe of the Scottish glen,
Nor of her censure feel afraid.
I'll charm her ear with beauty's praise,
And please her eye with songs agen--
The ballads of our early days--
To Phoebe of the Scottish glen.

There never was a fairer thing
All Scotland's glens and mountains through.
The siller gowans of the Spring,
Besprent with pearls of mountain dew,
The maiden blush upon the brere,
Far distant from the haunts of men,
Are nothing half so sweet or dear
As Phoebe of the Scottish glen.

How handsome is her naked foot,
Moist with the pearls of Summer dew:
The siller daisy's nothing to 't,
Nor hawthorn flowers so white to view,
She's sweeter than the blooming brere,
T...

John Clare

Down-Adown-Derry

Down-adown-derry,
    Sweet Annie Maroon,
Gathering daisies
    In the meadows of Doone,
Hears a shrill piping,
    Elflike and free,
Where the waters go brawling
    In rills to the sea;
    Singing down-adown-derry.

Down-adown-derry,
    Sweet Annie Maroon,
Through the green grasses
    Peeps softly; and soon
Spies under green willows
    A fairy whose song
Like the smallest of bubbles
    Floats bobbing along;
    Singing down-adown-derry.



Down-adown-derry,
    Her cheeks were like wine,
Her eyes in her wee face
    Like water-sparks shine,
Her niminy fingers
    Her sleek tresses preen,
The which in the combing
    She peeps out between;
    Singing down-adown-derry.

Down-...

Walter De La Mare

The March Nosegay

The bonny March morning is beaming
In mingled crimson and grey,
White clouds are streaking and creaming
The sky till the noon of the day;
The fir deal looks darker and greener,
And grass hills below look the same;
The air all about is serener,
The birds less familiar and tame.

Here's two or three flowers for my fair one,
Wood primroses and celandine too;
I oft look about for a rare one
To put in a posy for you.
The birds look so clean and so neat,
Though there's scarcely a leaf on the grove;
The sun shines about me so sweet,
I cannot help thinking of love.

So where the blue violets are peeping,
By the warm sunny sides of the woods,
And the primrose, 'neath early morn weeping,
Amid a large cluster of buds,
(The morning it was suc...

John Clare