The Seed-Shop

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.

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.

by Muriel Stuart

Comments (29)

...a quiet and dusty room Well communicated and expressed Sylva
this is a wonderful poem, and I have written here twice now, that there is a verse missing....Grrrrrr!
The second verse is missing from this version, as I said here so long ago. I wish that you would fix it! The missing stanza reads as follows; Death, that shall quicken at the call of Spring, sleepers to stir beneath June's magic kiss, though birds pass over, unremembering, and no bee seeks here roses that were his.
You have missed out a verse.. Death, that shall quicken at the call of Spring, a cedar in this narrow cell is thrust. That shall drink deeply of a century's streams, these lilies shall make summer on my dust.
Wonderful work, glad I discovered this!
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