The generous days / Stephen Spender
| dc.contributor | Oakman, Robert L., 1941- Department of English University of South Carolina Columbia |
| dc.contributor.author | Spender, Stephen, 1909- |
| dc.coverage.placeName | London |
| dc.date.accessioned | 2018-07-27 |
| dc.date.accessioned | 2022-08-21T15:59:14Z |
| dc.date.available | 2022-08-21T15:59:14Z |
| dc.date.created | 1971 |
| dc.identifier | ota:0142 |
| dc.identifier.uri | http://hdl.handle.net/20.500.14106/0142 |
| dc.description.abstract | Resource deposited with the Oxford Text Archive. |
| dc.format.extent | Text data (1 file : ca. 23 KB) |
| dc.format.medium | Digital bitstream |
| dc.language | English |
| dc.language.iso | eng |
| dc.publisher | University of Oxford |
| dc.relation.ispartof | Oxford Text Archive Legacy Collection |
| dc.rights | Use of this resource is restricted in some manner. Usually this means that it is available for non-commercial use only with prior permission of the depositor and on condition that this header is included in its entirety with any copy distributed. |
| dc.rights.uri | https://hdl.handle.net/20.500.14106/licence-ota |
| dc.rights.label | ACA |
| dc.subject.lcsh | English poetry -- 20th century |
| dc.subject.other | Poems |
| dc.title | The generous days / Stephen Spender |
| dc.type | Text |
| has.files | yes |
| branding | Oxford Text Archive |
| files.size | 23238 |
| files.count | 1 |
| otaterms.date.range | 1900-1999 |
Files for this item
- Name
- days-0142.txt
- Size
- 22.69 KB
- Format
- Text file
- Description
- Version of the work in plain text format
IF IT WERE NOT If it were not for that Lean executioner, who stands Ever beyond a door With axe raised in both hands -- All my days here would be One day -- the same -- the drops Of light edgeless in light That no circumference stops. Mountain, star and flower Single with my seeing Would -- gone from sight -- draw back again Each to its separate being. Nor would I hoard against The obliterating desert Their petals of the crystal snow Glittering on the heart. My hand would never stir To follow into stone Hair the wind outlines on sky A moment, and then gone. What gives edge to remembering Is death. It's that shows, curled, Within each falling moment An Antony, a world. She came into the garden And, walking through deep flowers, held up Our child who, smiling down at her, Clung to her throat, a cup. Clocks notch such instances On time: no time to keep Beyond the eye's delight The loss that makes it weep. I chisel memories Within a shadowy room, Transmuting gleams of light to ships Laun . . .
