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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 | Create an image from this poem

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 | Create an image from this poem

Happiness

 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 | Create an image from this poem

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 | Create an image from this poem

Conviction (ii)

 I walked abroad in Easter Park,
I heard the wild dog's distant bark,
I knew my Lord was risen again, -
Wild dog, wild dog, you bark in vain.
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Autumn

 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.
'
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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.
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Exeat

 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.
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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.
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Mother Among The Dustbins

 Mother, among the dustbins and the manure
I feel the measure of my humanity, an allure
As of the presence of God, I am sure

In the dustbins, in the manure, in the cat at play,
Is the presence of God, in a sure way
He moves there.
Mother, what do you say? I too have felt the presence of God in the broom I hold, in the cobwebs in the room, But most of all in the silence of the tomb.
Ah! but that thought that informs the hope of our kind Is but an empty thing, what lies behind? -- Naught but the vanity of a protesting mind That would not die.
This is the thought that bounces Within a conceited head and trounces Inquiry.
Man is most frivolous when he pronounces.
Well Mother, I shall continue to think as I do, And I think you would be wise to do so too, Can you question the folly of man in the creation of God? Who are you?
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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.
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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.
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I Do Not Speak

 I do not ask for mercy for understanding for peace
And in these heavy days I do not ask for release
I do not ask that suffering shall cease.
I do not pray to God to let me die To give an ear attentive to my cry To pause in his marching and not hurry by.
I do not ask for anything I do not speak I do not question and I do not seek I used to in the day when I was weak.
Now I am strong and lapped in sorrow As in a coat of magic mail and borrow From Time today and care not for tomorrow.
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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.
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The Reason

 My life is vile
 I hate it so
 I'll wait awhile
 And then I'll go.
Why wait at all? Hope springs alive, Good may befall I yet may thrive.
It is because I can't make up my mind If God is good, impotent or unkind.
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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.