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Tag: Rosamund Stanhope

The Greenhouse

Seeing December’s filicale,

Her nervous woods,

In the red sound of the soil

I plot my trowel,

Looking for round green words.

Plants creep and spire,

Leaves coil and trace

Their potted artifice.

In the red sound of the air

The heart’s forced temperature

Heats the induced flower.

Far from the glass house

Constrained and aphyllous

The leaves have shot their songs

With brown and withered tongues.

And here I plot my trowel

Fearing no less

Such orchid skill,

Such anode emptiness.

from So I Looked Down to CamelotFind more by Rosamund Stanhope at the library

Copyright © 1962 Rosamund Stanhope
Used with the permission of Flood Editions.

The Fern in the Sun

The fern in the sun

Is the cryptogam.

Frond and fibre rise

From humus and haulm,

The leaf and the loam

Work their synthesis.

The fern in the shade

Is the spire of God,

Esoteric, immune.

And from this I discern

The essence locked in the bloom,

The world in the word.

from So I Looked Down to CamelotFind more by Rosamund Stanhope at the library

Copyright © 2020 Rosamund Stanhope
Used with the permission of Flood Editions.

This program is supported in part by a grant from the Idaho Humanities Council, a State-based program of the National Endowment for the Humanities.

Any views, findings, conclusions, or recommendations expressed in this (publication, website, exhibit, etc.) do not necessarily represent those of the Idaho Humanities Council or the National Endowment for the Humanities.

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