To the Indifferent by Mary Corringham

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Not by still lake, not by the harried shore,
   Neither in steady moon nor wavering sun
Does there sleep one unwritten metaphor
   That never song has ended or begun.

What shall I liken you unto, O friend?
   What simile is left, what figure of speech?
What strange, sweet beauty with your soul shall blend
   That lieth not too far beyond my reach?

I think you are most like a looking-glass
   Wherein for some brief time ourselves are seen;
You have held, yet hold not still, the things that pass . . .
   After me, you will be as unmoved and serene
As if even I had never come between
   You and the sun's dark shadow on the grass.

First published in The Sydney Morning Herald, 8 September 1934

Author: nothing is known about the author of this poem

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This page contains a single entry by Perry Middlemiss published on September 8, 2011 7:35 AM.

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