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Best Famous Katherine Mansfield Poems

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

Search for the best famous Katherine Mansfield poems, articles about Katherine Mansfield poems, poetry blogs, or anything else Katherine Mansfield poem related using the PoetrySoup search engine at the top of the page.

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Poems are below...


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Written by Katherine Mansfield | Create an image from this poem

Camomile Tea

Outside the sky is light with stars; 
There's a hollow roaring from the sea.
And, alas! for the little almond flowers, The wind is shaking the almond tree.
How little I thought, a year ago, In the horrible cottage upon the Lee That he and I should be sitting so And sipping a cup of camomile tea.
Light as feathers the witches fly, The horn of the moon is plain to see; By a firefly under a jonquil flower A goblin toasts a bumble-bee.
We might be fifty, we might be five, So snug, so compact, so wise are we! Under the kitchen-table leg My knee is pressing against his knee.
Our shutters are shut, the fire is low, The tap is dripping peacefully; The saucepan shadows on the wall Are black and round and plain to see.
Written by Katherine Mansfield | Create an image from this poem

Fairy Tale

 Now this is the story of Olaf
Who ages and ages ago
Lived right on the top of a mountain,
A mountain all covered with snow.
And he was quite pretty and tiny With beautiful curling fair hair And small hands like delicate flowers-- Cheeks kissed by the cold mountain air.
He lived in a hut made of pinewood Just one little room and a door A table, a chair, and a bedstead And animal skins on the floor.
Now Olaf was partly fairy And so never wanted to eat; He thought dewdrops and raindrops were plenty And snowflakes and all perfumes sweet.
In the daytime when sweeping and dusting And cleaning were quite at an end, He would sit very still on the doorstep And dream--O, that he had a friend! Somebody to come when he called them, Somebody to catch by the hand, Somebody to sleep with at night time, Somebody who'd quite understand.
One night in the middle of Winter He lay wide awake on his bed, Outside there was fury of tempest And calling of wolves to be fed-- Thin wolves, grey and silent as shadows; And Olaf was frightened to death.
He had peeped through a crack in the doorpost, He had seen the white smoke of their breath.
But suddenly over the storm wind He heard a small voice pleadingly Cry, "I am a snow fairy, Olaf, Unfasten the window for me.
" So he did, and there flew through the opening The daintiest, prettiest sprite Her face and her dress and her stockings, Her hands and her curls were all white.
And she said, "O you poor little stranger Before I am melted, you know, I have brought you a valuable present, A little brown fiddle and bow.
So now you can never be lonely, With a fiddle, you see, for a friend, But all through the Summer and Winter Play beautiful songs without end.
" And then,--O she melted like water, But Olaf was happy at last; The fiddle he tucked in his shoulder, He held his small bow very fast.
So perhaps on the quietest of evenings If you listen, you may hear him soon, The child who is playing the fiddle Away up in the cold, lonely moon.
Written by Katherine Mansfield | Create an image from this poem

Sea Song

 I will think no more of the sea! Of the big green waves And the hollowed
shore, Of the brown rock caves No more, no more Of the swell and the weed
And the bubbling foam.
Memory dwells in my far away home, She has nothing to do with me.
She is old and bent With a pack On her back.
Her tears all spent, Her voice, just a crack.
With an old thorn stick She hobbles along, And a crazy song Now slow, now quick, Wheeks in her throat.
And every day While there's light on the shore She searches for something; Her withered claw Tumbles the seaweed; She pokes in each shell Groping and mumbling Until the night Deepens and darkens, And covers her quite, And bids her be silent, And bids her be still.
The ghostly feet Of the whispery waves Tiptoe beside her.
They follow, follow To the rocky caves In the white beach hollow.
.
.
She hugs her hands, She sobs, she shrills, And the echoes shriek In the rocky hills.
She moans: "It is lost! Let it be! Let it be! I am old.
I'm too cold.
I am frightened.
.
.
the sea Is too loud.
.
.
it is lost, It is gone.
.
.
" Memory Wails in my far away home.
1913
Written by Katherine Mansfield | Create an image from this poem

A Joyful Song Of Five

 Come, let us all sing very high
And all sing very loud
And keep on singing in the street
Until there's quite a crowd;

And keep on singing in the house
And up and down the stairs;
Then underneath the furniture
Let's all play Polar bears;

And crawl about with doormats on,
And growl and howl and squeak,
Then in the garden let us fly
And play at hid and seek;

And "Here we gather Nuts and May,"
"I wrote a Letter" too,
"Here we go round the Mulberry Bush,"
"The Child who lost its shoe";

And every game we ever played.
And then--to stay alive-- Let's end with lots of Birthday Cake Because to-day you're five.
Written by Katherine Mansfield | Create an image from this poem

Butterfly Laughter

 In the middle of our porridge plates
There was a blue butterfly painted
And each morning we tried who should reach the
butterfly first.
Then the Grandmother said: "Do not eat the poor butterfly.
" That made us laugh.
Always she said it and always it started us laughing.
It seemed such a sweet little joke.
I was certain that one fine morning The butterfly would fly out of our plates, Laughing the teeniest laugh in the world, And perch on the Grandmother's lap.
Written by Katherine Mansfield | Create an image from this poem

The Wounded Bird

 In the wide bed
Under the freen embroidered quilt
With flowers and leaves always in soft motion
She is like a wounded bird resting on a pool.
The hunter threw his dart And hit her breast,-- Hit her but did not kill.
"O my wings, lift me--lift me! I am not dreadfully hurt!" Down she dropped and was still.
Kind people come to the edge of the pool with baskets.
"Of course what the poor bird wants is plenty of food!" Their bags and pockets are crammed almost to bursting With dinner scrapings and scraps from the servants' lunch.
Oh! how pleased they are to be really giving! "In the past, you know you know, you were always so fly-away.
So seldom came to the window-sill, so rarely Shared the delicious crumbs thrown into the yard.
Here is a delicate fragment and her a tit-bit As good as new.
And here's a morsel of relish And cake and bread and bread and bread and bread.
" At night, in the wide bed With the leaves and flowers Gently weaving in the darkness, She is like a wounded bird at rest on a pool.
Timidly, timidly she lifts her head from her wing.
In the sky there are two stars Floating, shining.
.
.
O waters--do not cover me! I would look long and long at those beautiful stars! O my wings--lift me--lift me! I am not so dreadfully hurt.
.
.
Written by Katherine Mansfield | Create an image from this poem

Opposites

 The Half-Soled-Boots-With-Toecaps-Child
Walked out into the street
And splashed in all the pubbles till
She had such shocking feet

The Patent-Leather-Slipper-Child
Stayed quietly in the house
And sat upon the fender stool
As still as any mouse.
The Half-Soled-Boots-With-Toecaps-Child Her hands were black as ink; She would come running through the house And begging for a drink.
The Patent-Leather-Slipper-Child Her hands were white as snow; She did not like to play around, She only liked to sew.
The Half-Soled-Boots-With-Toecaps-Child Lost hair ribbons galore; She dropped them on the garden walks, She dropped them on the floor.
The Patent-Leather-Slipper-Child O thoughtful little girl! She liked to walk quite soberly, It kept her hair in curl.
The Half-Soled-Boots-With-Toecaps-Child When she was glad or proud Just flung her arms round Mother's neck And kissed her very loud.
The Patent-Leather-Slipper-Child Was shocked at such a sight, She only offered you her cheek At morning and at night.
O Half-Soled-Boots-With-Toecaps-Child Your happy laughing face Does like a scented Summer rose Make sweet the dullest place.
O Patent-Leather-Slipper-Child My dear, I'm well content To have my daughter in my arms, And not an ornament.
Written by Katherine Mansfield | Create an image from this poem

Loneliness

 Now it is Loneliness who comes at night
Instead of Sleep, to sit beside my bed.
Like a tired child I lie and wait her tread, I watch her softly blowing out the light.
Motionless sitting, neither left or right She turns, and weary, weary droops her head.
She, too, is old; she, too, has fought the fight.
So, with the laurel she is garlanded.
Through the sad dark the slowly ebbing tide Breaks on a barren shore, unsatisfied.
A strange wind flows.
.
.
then silence.
I am fain To turn to Loneliness, to take her hand, Cling to her, waiting, till the barren land Fills with the dreadful monotone of rain
Written by Katherine Mansfield | Create an image from this poem

The Storm

 I Ran to the forest for shelter,
Breathless, half sobbing;
I put my arms round a tree,
Pillowed my head against the rough bark.
"Protect me," I said.
"I am a lost child.
" But the tree showered silver drops on my face and hair.
A wind sprang up from the ends of the earth; It lashed the forest together.
A huge green wave thundered and burst over my head.
I prayed, implored, "Please take care of me!" But the wind pulled at my cloak and the rain beat upon me.
Little rivers tore up the ground and swamped the bushes.
A frenzy possessed the earth: I felt that the earth was drowning In a bubbling cavern of space.
I alone-- Smaller than the smallest fly--was alive and terrified.
Then for what reason I know not, I became trium- phant "Well, kill me!" I cried and ran out into the open.
But the storm ceased: the sun spread his wings And floated serene in the silver pool of the sky.
I put my hands over my face: I was blushing.
And the trees swung together and delicately laughed.
Written by Katherine Mansfield | Create an image from this poem

Grown-Up Talk

 Half-Past-Six and I were talking
In a very grown-up way;
We had got so tired with running
That we did not want to play.
"How do babies come, I wonder," He said, looking at the sky, "Does God mix the things together An' just make it-like a pie?" I was really not quite certain, But it sounded very nice; It was all that we could think of, Besides a book said "sugar and spice.
" Half-Past-Six said--He's so clever-- Cleverer than me, I mean.
.
.
"I suppose God makes the black ones When the saucepan isn't clean.
"
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