Asleep in my Hand

15 Mar 2022 | Glory | 0 comments

Here in a quiet and dusty room they lie,
Faded as crumbled stone or shifting sand,
Forlorn as ashes, shrivelled, scentless, dry –
Meadows and gardens running through my hand.

Dead that shall quicken at the call of Spring,
Sleepers to stir beneath June’s magic kiss,
Though birds pass over, unremembering,
And no bee suck here roses that were his.

In this brown husk a dale of hawthorn dreams;
A cedar in this narrow cell is thrust
That will drink deeply of a century’s streams;
These lilies shall make summer on my dust.

Here in their safe and simple house of death,
Sealed in their shells, a million roses leap;
Here I can blow a garden with my breath,
And in my hand a forest lies asleep.

Muriel Stuart (1885-1967), The Seed Shop.

Notes from the Compiler

A commentator writes: 'This poem by Muriel Stuart explores the potential and hidden life within dormant seeds. Its simple and direct language captures the contrast between the seemingly lifeless husks and the vibrant life they contain. In its quiet contemplation and appreciation of the natural world, "The Seed-Shop" is similar to Stuart's other nature-inspired works. However, it also reflects the post-World War I era's preoccupation with loss and rebirth. The poem's focus on the dormant potential within the seeds suggests a (timely) sense of hope and resilience amidst the devastation of war.' In Durham, Ruth Etchells (1931-2012) drew my attention to this poem in the 1970s. It enshrines the Christian hope of new life and resurrection!

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