•  
  • Listen to today’s talk
    Birth and Death
  •  
  •  

Seeds

By Muriel Stuart

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:
It 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.

Comments

47 Lillian Road
London
SW13 9JF
United Kingdom

+44 (0)20 8748 3218

info@phirozmehtatrust.org.uk

UK Registered Charity 328061

© 1959–2021 The Phiroz Mehta Trust