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Winter Wind

Elizabeth Jennings Carcanet Press Ltd. PDF
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Elizabeth Jennings Carcanet Press Ltd. PDF

So he went on with happy ease,

With confidence supplied by her.

He’d found a world made just to please

Because a valid truth was there.

The sun was strong. The air was wide.

The plan and purpose pleased this man.

He never thought that he should hide

From fiery heat. The hours began

To slow and every thought was laid

Upon a page. The man lay there

But suddenly some difference made

Him stir. He woke and wept for where

His pleasant arguments were set

Upon his note-book there was now

Only an empty page. He let

The pages flutter, wondered how

He’d tell the woman of the change,

But she had gone. She was a part

Of his deep dream. He must arrange

His life again. He had to start

Upon his own, the sun gone cold.

‘I want my dream,’ he cried, but knew

Dreams won’t revive however bold

The dreamer is. That this is true

Is how the actual brings us down

And scatters magic quite away.

‘When I’m awake and quite alone

The world’s not mine and will not stay.’


Adolescence seems less painful now

Than it was when I too

Found I had changed. Few would then allow

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Julith Jedamus Carcanet Press Ltd. PDF
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The Humanists

Elizabeth Jennings Carcanet Press Ltd. PDF
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LX (ii) (‘At times, pure love may justly be equated’)

Elizabeth Jennings Carcanet Press Ltd. PDF

LX (ii)

At times, pure love may justly be equated

With fervent hope; nor need it be deceived.

If by all human loves the heavens are grieved,

Then to what end was the whole world created?

If I indeed honour and love you, Lord,

And if I burn, it is a heavenly calm

That emanates from you and makes me warm;

Such peace is far removed from all discord.

True love is not a passion which can die,

Or which depends on beauty that must fade;

Nor is it subject to a changing face.

That love is true and holy which finds place

Within a modest heart, and which is made,

Far above earth, a pledge of love on high.

LXI On the Death of Vittoria Colonna

If my rough hammer makes a human form

And carves it in the hard, unyielding stone,

My hand is guided, does not move alone,

But follows where that other worker came.

Yet the first worker, God, remains above,

Whose very motion makes all loveliness.

To make a tool I need a tool, but his

Power is the first cause and makes all things move.

That stroke which in the forge is raised most high

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