Alice Meynell's Poems - A 1913 Collection

Recently I found a new delight at the book shop. I was arms deep in a second hand poetry table at The Strand, and I pulled out this unnassuming olive green volume:

I liked its pious, Victorian poems filled with straightforward rhyming couplets and floral imagery - this era of poetry really speaks to me for some reason, very schoolhouse to me - but what really excited me was the discovery that this book was signed - in 1914 - by Alice Meynell herself.

I was like, oh, yeah, I gotta buy this. And it was a modest $10. Perfect. A new treasure for me.

There's also a lovely portrait of her by John Singer Sargent which greets you as you open the book, drawn in 1894. I love how rough and thick those pencil lines are.

Here's one of my favourite poems (so far) from this collection:

 

AN UNMARKED FESTIVAL

 There's a feast undated, yet
    Both our true lives hold it fast,—
Even the day when first we met.
    What a great day came and passed,
    —Unknown then, but known at last.

And we met: You knew not me,
    Mistress of your joys and fears;
Held my hand that held the key
    Of the treasure of your years,
    Of the fountain of your tears.

For you knew not it was I,
    And I knew not it was you.
We have learnt, as days went by.
    But a flower struck root and grew
    Underground, and no one knew.

Day of days! Unmarked it rose,
    In whose hours we were to meet;
And forgotten passed. Who knows,
    Was earth cold or sunny, Sweet,
    At the coming of your feet?

One mere day, we thought; the measure
    Of such days the year fulfils.
Now, how dearly would we treasure
    Something from its fields, its rills,
    And its memorable hills.