"melia" poems - Hello Poetry

“O ‘Melia, my dear, this does everything crown! Who could have supposed I should meet you in Town? And whence such fair garments, such prosperi-ty?”— “O didn’t you know I’d been ruined?” said she. —”You left us in tatters, without shoes or socks, Tired of digging potatoes, and spudding up docks; And now you’ve gay bracelets and bright feathers three!”— “Yes: that’s how we dress when we’re ruined,” said she. —”At home in the barton you said ‘thee’ and ‘thou,’ And ‘thik oon,’ and ‘theäs oon,’ and ‘t’other’; but now Your talking quite fits ‘ee for high compa-ny!”— “Some polish is gained with one’s ruin,” said she. —”Your hands were like paws then, your face blue and bleak But now I’m bewitched by your delicate cheek, And your little gloves fit as on any la-dy!”— “We never do work when we’re ruined,” said she. —”You used to call home-life a hag-ridden dream, And you’d sigh, and you’d sock; but at present you seem To know not of megrims or melancho-ly!”— “True. One’s pretty lively when ruined,” said she. “—I wish I had feathers, a fine sweeping gown, And a delicate face, and could strut about Town!”— “My dear—a raw country girl, such as you be, Cannot quite expect that. You ain’t ruined,” said she.

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Thomas Hardy

The Ruined Maid

“O ‘Melia, my dear, this does everything crown! Who could have supposed I should meet you in Town? And whence such fair garments, such prosperi-ty?”— “O didn’t you know I’d been ruined?” said she. —”You left us in tatters, without shoes or socks, Tired of digging potatoes, and spudding up docks; And now you’ve gay bracelets and bright feathers three!”— “Yes: that’s how we dress when we’re ruined,” said she. —”At home in the barton you said ‘thee’ and ‘thou,’ And ‘thik oon,’ and ‘theäs oon,’ and ‘t’other’; but now Your talking quite fits ‘ee for high compa-ny!”— “Some polish is gained with one’s ruin,” said she. —”Your hands were like paws then, your face blue and bleak But now I’m bewitched by your delicate cheek, And your little gloves fit as on any la-dy!”— “We never do work when we’re ruined,” said she. —”You used to call home-life a hag-ridden dream, And you’d sigh, and you’d sock; but at present you seem To know not of megrims or melancho-ly!”— “True. One’s pretty lively when ruined,” said she. “—I wish I had feathers, a fine sweeping gown, And a delicate face, and could strut about Town!”— “My dear—a raw country girl, such as you be, Cannot quite expect that. You ain’t ruined,” said she.

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bring two cups of tea to the eye of the storm and let us drink them under the cold barrage of voices let us write a book on the soil with a preface written by gods and a dandelion index as boundless as time let us write about an earth in which tree leaves are sacred its rain is the verdict of fluttering and its children are the blue pellucid of life and its people prostrate to the skies let us speak of an earth on which tulips don't grow* swallows stay and plant dandelions let us write a book in the diameter of dreams in the length of smile and width of tears with the weight of seedlings by the ink dripping from the lips of spring — M. Melia

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Jul 22, 2013

Jul 22, 2013 at 11:22 AM UTC

maeve-melia

two cups of tea

bring two cups of tea to the eye of the storm and let us drink them under the cold barrage of voices let us write a book on the soil with a preface written by gods and a dandelion index as boundless as time let us write about an earth in which tree leaves are sacred its rain is the verdict of fluttering and its children are the blue pellucid of life and its people prostrate to the skies let us speak of an earth on which tulips don't grow* swallows stay and plant dandelions let us write a book in the diameter of dreams in the length of smile and width of tears with the weight of seedlings by the ink dripping from the lips of spring — M. Melia

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I live on the edge of a sleepy soul a moist rose and an infinite lilac sky beneath my chin — M. Melia, from The Unravelling Travelogue.

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Jul 26, 2013

Jul 26, 2013 at 8:09 AM UTC

maeve-melia

I

I live on the edge of a sleepy soul a moist rose and an infinite lilac sky beneath my chin — M. Melia, from The Unravelling Travelogue.

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