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Harold Monro - Poems Classic Poetry Series Harold Monro - poems - Publication Date: 2012 Publisher: Poemhunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive Harold Monro(14 March 1879 - 16 March 1932) 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 <a href="http://www.poemhunter.com/wilfred- owen/">Wilfred Owen</a>, 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. www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive 1 Child Of Dawn O gentle vision in the dawn: My spirit over faint cool water glides, Child of the day, To thee; And thou art drawn By kindred impulse over silver tides The dreamy way To me. I need thy hands, O gentle wonder-child, For they are moulded unto all repose; Thy lips are frail, And thou art cooler than an April rose; White are thy words and mild: Child of the morning, hail! Breathe thus upon mine eyelids -- that we twain May build the day together out of dreams. Life, with thy breath upon my eyelids, seems Exquisite to the utmost bounds of pain. I cannot live, except as I may be Compelled for love of thee. O let us drift, Frail as the floating silver of a star, Or like the summer humming of a bee, Or stream-reflected sunlight through a rift. I will not hope, because I know, alas, Morning will glide, and noon, and then the night Will take thee from me. Everything must pass Swiftly -- but nought so swift as dawn-delight. If I could hold thee till the day, Is broad on sea and hill, Child of repose, What god can say, What god or mortal knows, What dream thou mightest not in me fulfil? O gentle vision in the dawn: www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive 2 My spirit over faint cool water glides, Child of the day, To thee; And thou art drawn By kindred impulse over silver tides The dreamy way To me. Harold Monro www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive 3 Children Of Love 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. There was no sound, No smallest voice of any shivering stream. Poor sinless little boy, He desired to play and to sing; he could only sigh and dream. Suddenly came Running along to him naked, with curly hair, That rogue of the lovely world, That other beautiful child whom the virgin Venus bare. The holy boy Gazed with those sad blue eyes that all men know. Impudent Cupid stood Panting, holding an arrow and pointing his bow. (Will you not play? Jesus, run to him, run to him, swift for our joy. Is he not holy, like you? Are you afraid of his arrows, O beautiful dreaming boy?) And now they stand Watching one another with timid gaze; Youth has met youth in the wood, But holiness will not change its melancholy ways. Cupid at last Draws his bow and softly lets fly a dart. Smile for a moment, sad world! - It has grazed the white skin and drawn blood from the sorrowful heart. Now, for delight, Cupid tosses his locks and goes wantonly near; But the child that was born to the cross Has let fall on his cheek, for the sadness of life, a compassionate tear. www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive 4 Marvellous dream! Cupid has offered his arrows for Jesus to try He as offered his bow for the game. But Jesus went weeping away, and left him there wondering why. Harold Monro www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive 5 Dog 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. And so the moment becomes a moving force; Coats glide down from their pegs in the humble dark; The sticks grow live to the stride of their vagrant course. You scamper the stairs, Your body informed with the scent and the track and the mark Of stoats and weasels, moles and badgers and hares. We are going OUT. You know the pitch of the word, Probing the tone of thought as it comes through fog And reaches by devious means (half-smelt, half-heard) The four-legged brain of a walk-ecstatic dog. Out in the garden your head is already low. (Can you smell the rose? Ah, no.) But your limbs can draw Life from the earth through the touch of your padded paw. Now, sending a little look to us behind, Who follow slowly the track of your lovely play, You carry our bodies forward away from mind Into the light and fun of your useless day. * * * * * Thus, for your walk, we took ourselves, and went Out by the hedge and the tree to the open ground. You ran, in delightful strata of wafted scent, Over the hill without seeing the view; Beauty is smell upon primitive smell to you: To you, as to us, it is distant and rarely found. Home ... and further joy will be surely there: Supper waiting full of the taste of bone. You throw up your nose again, and sniff, and stare www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive 6 For the rapture known Of the quick wild gorge of food and the still lie-down While your people talk above you in the light Of candles, and your dreams will merge and drown Into the bed-delicious hours of night. Harold Monro www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive 7 Every Thing Since man has been articulate, Mechanical, improvidently wise, (Servant of Fate), He has not understood the little cries And foreign conversations of the small Delightful creatures that have followed him Not far behind; Has failed to hear the sympathetic call Of Crockery and Cutlery, those kind Reposeful Teraphim Of his domestic happiness; the Stool He sat on, or the Door he entered through: He has not thanked them, overbearing fool! What is he coming to? But you should listen to the talk of these. Honest they are, and patient they have kept, Served him without his Thank you or his Please. I often heard The gentle Bed, a sigh between each word, Murmuring, before I slept. The Candle, as I blew it, cried aloud, Then bowed, And in a smoky argument Into the darkness went. The Kettle puffed a tentacle of breath : -- ' Pooh! I have boiled his water, I don't know Why; and he always says I boil too slow, He never calls me 'Sukie, dear,' and oh, I wonder why I squander my desire Sitting submissive on his fire.' Now the old Copper Basin suddenly Rattled and tumbled from the shelf, Bumping and crying: ' I can fall by myself; Without a woman's hand To patronize and coax and flatter me, I understand www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive 8 The lean and poise of gravitable land.' It gave a raucous and tumultuous shout, Twisted itself convulsively about, Rested upon the foor, and, while I stare, It stares and grins at me. The old impetuous Gas above my head Begins irascibly to flare and fret, Wheezing into its epileptic jet, Reminding me I ought to go to bed. The Rafters creak; an Empty-Cupboard door Swings open; now a wild Plank of the floor Breaks from its joist, and leaps behind my foot. Down from the chimney half a pound of Soot Tumbles, and lies, and shakes itself again. The Putty cracks against hte window-pane. A piece of Paper in the basket shoves Another piece, and toward the bottom moves. My independent Pencil, while I write, Breaks at the point: the ruminating Clock Stirs all its body and begins to rock, Warning the waiting presence of the Night, Strikes the dead hour, and tumbles to the plain Ticking of ordinary work again. You do well to remind me, and I praise Your strangely individual foreign ways. You call me from myself to recognize Companionship in your unselfish eyes. I want your dear acquaintances, although I pass you arrogantly over, throw Your lovely sounds, and squander them along My busy days. I 'll do you no more wrong. Purr for me, Sukie, like a faithful cat. You, my well trampled Boots, and you, my Hat, Remain my friends: I feel, though I don't speak, Your touch grow kindlier from week to week.
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