Orts #855
Three poems by Stevie Smith (1902-1971)
Portrait
She was not always so unkind I swear
And keep this thought that's all I have of her
Who was upon a time my only thought and care.
Sweet memory, hid from the light of truth
I'll keep thee, for I would not have thy worth
Questioned in Court of Law, nor answer for it on my oath,
But hid in my fond heart I'll carry thee
And to a fair false thought I'll marry thee
And when thy time is done I'll bury thee.
My Muse
My Muse sits forlorn
She wishes she had not been born
She sits in the cold
No word she says is ever told.
Why does my Muse only speak when she is unhappy?
She does not, I only listen when I am unhappy
When I am happy I live and despise writing
For my Muse this cannot but be dispiriting.
The Deathly Child
The deathly child is very gay,
He walks in the sunshine but no shadow falls his way,
He has come to warn us that one must go who would rather stay.
Oh deathly child
With a heart of woe
And a smile on your face,
Who is it that must go?
He walks down the avenue, the trees
Have leaves that are silver where they are turned upon the breeze.
He is more pale than the silver leaves more pale than these.
He walks delicately,
He has a delicate tread.
Why look, he leaves no mark at all
Where the dust is spread.
Over the café tables the talk is going to and fro,
And the people smile and they frown, but they do not know
That the deathly child walks. Ah who is it that must go?