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Best Famous Stevie Smith Poems

Here is a collection of the all-time best famous Stevie Smith poems. This is a select list of the best famous Stevie Smith poetry. Reading, writing, and enjoying famous Stevie Smith poetry (as well as classical and contemporary poems) is a great past time. These top poems are the best examples of Stevie Smith poems.

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Written by Stevie Smith |

The Pleasures Of Friendship

 The pleasures of friendship are exquisite,
How pleasant to go to a friend on a visit!
I go to my friend, we walk on the grass,
And the hours and moments like minutes pass.

Written by Stevie Smith |


 Happiness is silent, or speaks equivocally for friends,
Grief is explicit and her song never ends,
Happiness is like England, and will not state a case,
Grief, like Guilt, rushes in and talks apace.

Written by Stevie Smith |


 He told his life story to Mrs.
Courtly Who was a widow.
'Let us get married shortly', He said.
'I am no longer passionate, But we can have some conversation before it is too late.

More great poems below...

Written by Stevie Smith |

Conviction (i)

 Christ died for God and me
Upon the crucifixion tree
For God a spoken Word
For me a Sword
For God a hymn of praise
For me eternal days
For God an explanation
For me salvation.

Written by Stevie Smith |

Alone In The Woods

 Alone in the woods I felt
The bitter hostility of the sky and the trees
Nature has taught her creatures to hate
Man that fusses and fumes
Unquiet man
As the sap rises in the trees
As the sap paints the trees a violent green
So rises the wrath of Nature's creatures
At man
So paints the face of Nature a violent green.
Nature is sick at man Sick at his fuss and fume Sick at his agonies Sick at his gaudy mind That drives his body Ever more quickly More and more In the wrong direction.

Written by Stevie Smith |

In The Night

 I longed for companionship rather,
But my companions I always wished farther.
And now in the desolate night I think only of the people i should like to bite.

Written by Stevie Smith |

The Jungle Husband

 Dearest Evelyn, I often think of you
Out with the guns in the jungle stew
Yesterday I hittapotamus
I put the measurements down for you but they got lost in the fuss
It's not a good thing to drink out here
You know, I've practically given it up dear.
Tomorrow I am going alone a long way Into the jungle.
It is all grey But green on top Only sometimes when a tree has fallen The sun comes down plop, it is quite appalling.
You never want to go in a jungle pool In the hot sun, it would be the act of a fool Because it's always full of anacondas, Evelyn, not looking ill-fed I'll say.
So no more now, from your loving husband Wilfred.

Written by Stevie Smith |

Edmonton thy cemetery

 Edmonton, thy cemetery
In which I love to tread
Has roused in me a dreary thought
For all the countless dead,
Ah me, the countless dead.
Yet I believe that one is one And shall for ever be, And while I hold to this belief I walk, oh cemetery, Thy footpaths happily.
And I believe that two and two Are but an earthly sum Whose totalling has no part at all In heavenly kingdom-come, I love the dead, I cry, I love Each happy happy one.
Till Doubt returns with dreary face And fills my heart with dread For all the tens and tens and tens That must make up a hundred, And I begin to sing with him As if Belief had never been Ah me, the countless dead, ah me The countless countless dead.

Written by Stevie Smith |

Not Waving But Drowning

 Nobody heard him, the dead man,
But still he lay moaning:
I was much further out than you thought
And not waving but drowning.
Poor chap, he always loved larking And now he's dead It must have been too cold for him his heart gave way, They said.
Oh, no no no, it was too cold always (Still the dead one lay moaning) I was much too far out all my life And not waving but drowning.

Written by Stevie Smith |

Deeply Morbid

 Deeply morbid deeply morbid was the girl who typed the letters
Always out of office hours running with her social betters
But when daylight and the darkness of the office closed about her
Not for this ah not for this her office colleagues came to doubt her
It was that look within her eye
Why did it always seem to say goodbye?

Joan her name was and at lunchtime
Solitary solitary
She would go and watch the pictures In the National Gallery
All alone all alone
This time with no friend beside her
She would go and watch the pictures
All alone.
Will she leave her office colleagues Will she leave her evening pleasures Toil within a friendly bureau Running later in her leisure? All alone all alone Before the pictures she seemed turned to stone.
Close upon the Turner pictures Closer than a thought may go Hangs her eye and all the colours Leap into a special glow All for her, all alone All for her, all for Joan.
First the canvas where the ocean Like a mighty animal With a wicked motion Leaps for sailors' funeral Holds her painting.
Oh the creature Oh the wicked virile thing With its skin of fleck and shadow Stretching tightening over him.
Wild yet caputured wild yet caputured By the painter, Joan is quite enraptured.
Now she edges from the canvas To another loved more dearly Where the awful light of purest Sunshine falls across the spray, There the burning coasts of fancy Open to her pleasure lay.
All alone all alone Come away come away All alone.
Lady Mary, Lady Kitty The Honourable Featherstonehaugh Polly Tommy from the office Which of these shall hold her now? Come away come away All alone.
The spray reached out and sucked her in It was hardly a noticed thing That Joan was there and is not now (Oh go and tell young Featherstonehaugh) Gone away, gone away All alone.
She stood up straight The sun fell down There was no more of London Town She went upon the painted shore And there she walks for ever more Happy quite Beaming bright In a happy happy light All alone.
They say she was a morbid girl, no doubt of it And what befell her clearly grew out of it But I say she's a lucky one To walk for ever in that sun And as I bless sweet Turner's name I wish that I could do the same.

Written by Stevie Smith |


 Walking swiftly with a dreadful duchess,
He smiled too briefly, his face was pale as sand,
He jumped into a taxi when he saw me coming,
Leaving my alone with a private meaning,
He loves me so much, my heart is singing.
Later at the Club when I rang him in the evening They said: Sir Rat is dining, is dining, is dining, No madam, he left no messafe, ah how his silence speaks, He loves me too much for words, my heart is singing.
The Pullman seats are here, the tickets for Paris, I am waiting, Presently the telephone rings, it is his valet speaking, Sir Rat is called away, to Scotland, his constituents, (Ah the dreadful duchess, but he loves me best) Best pleasure to the last, my heart is singing, One night he came, it was four in the morning, Walking slowly upstairs, he stands beside my bed, Dear darling, lie beside me, it is too cold to stand speaking, He lies down beside me, his face is like the sand, He is in a sleep of love, my heart is singing.
Sleeping softly softly, in the morning I must wake him, And waking he murmurs, I only came to sleep.
The words are so sweetly cruel, how deeply he loves me, I say them to myself alone, my heart is singing.
Now the sunshine strenghtens, it is ten in the morning, He is so timid in love, he only needs to know, He is my little child, how can he come if I do not call him, I will write and tell him everything, I take the pen and write: I love you so much, my heart is singing.

Written by Stevie Smith |

My Heart Was Full

 My heart was full of softening showers,
I used to swing like this for hours,
I did not care for war or death,
I was glad to draw my breath.

Written by Stevie Smith |

Drugs Made Pauline Vague

 Drugs made Pauline vague.
She sat one day at the breakfast table Fingering in a baffled way The fronds of the maidenhair plant.
Was it the salt you were looking for dear? said Dulcie, exchanging a glance with the Brigadier.
Chuff chuff Pauline what's the matter? Said the Brigadier to his wife Who did not even notice What a handsome couple they made.

Written by Stevie Smith |


 I remember the Roman Emperor, one of the cruellest of them,
Who used to visit for pleasure his poor prisoners cramped in dungeons,
So then they would beg him for death, and then he would say:
Oh no, oh no, we are not yet friends enough.
He meant they were not yet friends enough for him to give them death.
So I fancy my Muse says, when I wish to die: Oh no, Oh no, we are not yet friends enough, And Virtue also says: We are not yet friends enough.
How can a poet commit suicide When he is still not listening properly to his Muse, Or a lover of Virtue when He is always putting her off until tomorrow? Yet a time may come when a poet or any person Having a long life behind him, pleasure and sorrow, But feeble now and expensive to his country And on the point of no longer being able to make a decision May fancy Life comes to him with love and says: We are friends enough now for me to give you death; Then he may commit suicide, then He may go.

Written by Stevie Smith |

My Heart Goes Out

 My heart goes out to my Creator in love
Who gave me Death, as end and remedy.
All living creatures come to quiet Death For him to eat up their activity And give them nothing, which is what they want although When they are living they do not think so.