Edwin Muir

Edwin Muir

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Edwin Muir (15 May 1887 – 3 January 1959) was a Scottish poet, novelist and translator. Born on a farm in Deerness, a parish of Orkney, Scotland, he is remembered for his deeply felt and vivid poetry written in plain language and with few stylistic preoccupations.
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The Child Dying

Unfriendly friendly universe,
I pack your stars into my purse,
And bid you so farewell
That I can leave you, quite go out,
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The Fathers

Our fathers all were poor,
Poorer our fathers' fathers;
Beyond, we dare not look
We, the sons, keep
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Robert the Bruce To Douglas in Dying

'MY life is done, yet all remains,
The breath has gone, the image not,
The furious shapes once forged in
Live on though now no longer hot
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O Merlin in your crystal
Deep in the diamond of the day,
Will there ever be a
Whose music will smooth
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The Animals

They do not live in the world,
Are not in time and space
From birth to death hurled No word do they have, not one To plant a foot upon,
Were never in any place
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In Love for Long

I've been in love for
With what I cannot
And will contrive a
For the
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The Good Man in Hell

If a good man were ever housed in
By needful error of the qualities,
Perhaps to prove the rule or shame the devil,
Or speak the truth only a stranger sees,
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The Killing

That was the day they killed the Son of
On a squat hill-top by Jerusalem
Zion was bare, her children from their
Sucked by the dream of
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The Transfiguration

So from the ground we felt that virtue branch Through all our veins till we were whole, our wrists As fresh and pure as water from a well,
Our hands made new to handle holy things,
The source of all our seeing rinsed and cleansed Till ea...
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Those lumbering horses in the steady plough,
On the bare field - I wonder, why, just now,
They seemed terrible, so wild and strange,
Like magic power on the stony grange
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The Days

Issuing from the Word The seven days came,
Each in its own place,
Its own name
And the first long days A hard and rocky spring,
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The Angel and the Girl

The angel and the girl are
Earth was the only meeting place
For the embodied never
Travelled beyond the shore of space
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The Incarnate One

The windless northern surge, the sea-gull's scream,
And Calvin's kirk crowning the barren brae
I think of Giotto the Tuscan shepherd's dream,
Christ, man and creature in their inner day
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The Castle

All through that summer at ease we lay,
And daily from the turret
We watched the mowers in the
And the enemy half a mile
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The Combat

It was not meant for human eyes,
That combat on the shabby
Of clods and trampled turf that
Somewhere beneath the sodden
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The Confirmation

Yes, yours, my love, is the right human face
I in my mind had waited for this long,
Seeing the false and searching for the true,
Then found you as a traveller finds a
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