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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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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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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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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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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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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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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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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Our fathers all were poor,
Poorer our fathers' fathers;
Beyond, we dare not look
We, the sons, keep
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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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I've been in love for
With what I cannot
And will contrive a
For the
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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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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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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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'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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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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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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