Laura Riding Jackson

The Quids

The little quids, the million quids, The everywhere, everything, always quids, The atoms of the Monoton- Each turned three essences where it stood And ground a gisty dust from its neighbors’ edges Until a

In Due Form

I do not doubt you. I know you love me. It is a fact of your indoor face, A true fancy of your muscularity. Your step is confident. Your look is thorough. Your stay-beside-me

The Poet’s Corner

Here where the end of bone is no end of song And the earth is bedecked with immortality In what was poetry And now is pride beside And nationality, Here is a battle with

Yes And No

Across a continent imaginary Because it cannot be discovered now Upon this fully apprehended planet- No more applicants considered, Alas, alas- Ran an animal unzoological, Without a fate, without a fact, Its private history

The Simple Line

The secrets of the mind convene splendidly, Though the mind is meek. To be aware inwardly Of brain and beauty Is dark too recognizable. Thought looking out on thought Makes one an eye: Which

With The Face

With the face goes a mirror As with the mind a world. Likeness tells the doubting eye That strangeness is not strange. At an early hour and knowledge Identity not yet familiar Looks back

The World And I

This is not exactly what I mean Any more than the sun is the sun. But how to mean more closely If the sun shines but approximately? What a world of awkwardness! What hostile