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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 |


 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.

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 |

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.

More great poems below...

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 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 |


 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 |

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.

Written by Stevie Smith |

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.

Written by Stevie Smith |

Sunt Leones

 The lions who ate the Christians on the sands of the arena
By indulging native appetites played was now been seen a
Not entirely negligible part
In consolidating at the very start
The position of the Early Christian Church.
Initiatory rights are always bloody In the lions, it appears From contemporary art, made a study Of dyeing Coliseum sands a ruddy Liturgically sacrificial hue And if the Christians felt a little blue- Will people being eaten often do.
Theirs was the death, and there's was a crown undying, A state of things which must be satisfying.
My point which up to this has been obscured Is that it was the lions who procured By chewing up blood gristle flesh and bone The martyrdoms on which the church has grown.
I only write this poem because I thought it rather looked As if the part the lions played was being overlooked.
By lions' jaws great benefits and blessings were begotten And so our debt to Lionhood must never be forgotten.

Written by Stevie Smith |

Tenuous And Precarious

 Tenuous and Precarious
Were my guardians,
Precarious and Tenuous,
Two Romans.
My father was Hazardous, Hazardous Dear old man, Three Romans.
There was my brother Spurious, Spurious Posthumous, Spurious was Spurious, Was four Romans.
My husband was Perfidious, He was Perfidious Five Romans.
Surreptitious, our son, Was Surreptitious, He was six Romans.
Our cat Tedious Still lives, Count not Tedious Yet.
My name is Finis, Finis, Finis, I am Finis, Six, five, four, three, two, One Roman, Finis.

Written by Stevie Smith |

Our Bog Is Dood

 Our Bog is dood, our Bog is dood,
They lisped in accents mild,
But when I asked them to explain
They grew a little wild.
How do you know your Bog is dood My darling little child? We know because we wish it so That is enough, they cried, And straight within each infant eye Stood up the flame of pride, And if you do not think it so You shall be crucified.
Then tell me, darling little ones, What's dood, suppose Bog is? Just what we think, the answer came, Just what we think it is.
They bowed their heads.
Our Bog is ours And we are wholly his.
But when they raised them up again They had forgotten me Each one upon each other glared In pride and misery For what was dood, and what their Bog They never could agree.
Oh sweet it was to leave them then, And sweeter not to see, And sweetest of all to walk alone Beside the encroaching sea, The sea that soon should drown them all, That never yet drowned me.

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 |

Conviction (iii)

 The shadow was so black,
I thought it was a cat,
But once in to it
I knew it
No more black
Than a shadow's back.
Illusion is a freak Of mind; The cat's to seek.

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 |

Pad Pad

 I always remember your beautiful flowers
And the beautiful kimono you wore
When you sat on the couch
With that tigerish crouch
And told me you loved me no more.
What I cannot remember is how I felt when you were unkind All I know is, if you were unkind now I should not mind.
Ah me, the power to feel exaggerated, angry and sad The years have taken from me.
Softly I go now, pad pad.