Harold Monro





Harold Monro

Author profile


born
in Brussels, Belgium
March 14, 1879

died
March 16, 1932

gender
male

genre


About this author

Harold Edward Monro was a British poet, the proprietor of the Poetry Bookshop in London which helped many famous poets bring their work before the public.

Monro was born in Brussels, but his parents were Scottish. He was educated at Radley and at Caius College, Cambridge. His first collection of poetry was published in 1906. He founded a poetry magazine, The Poetry Review, which was to be very influential. In 1912, he founded the Poetry Bookshop in Bloomsbury, London, publishing new collections at his own expense and rarely making a profit, as well as providing a welcoming environment for readers and poets alike. Several poets, including Wilfred Owen, actually lodged in the rooms above the bookshop. Monro was also closely involved with Edwar
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Average rating: 4.20 · 5 ratings · 3 reviews · 7 distinct works · Similar authors
Strange Meetings
4.5 of 5 stars 4.50 avg rating — 2 ratings — published 2003
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The Earth for Sale
4.0 of 5 stars 4.00 avg rating — 1 rating
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Judas
4.0 of 5 stars 4.00 avg rating — 1 rating
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Collected Poems
4.0 of 5 stars 4.00 avg rating — 1 rating — published 1933
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Strange meetings, a book of...
0.0 of 5 stars 0.00 avg rating — 0 ratings — published 2010
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The Chronicle of a Pilgrima...
0.0 of 5 stars 0.00 avg rating — 0 ratings — published 2008
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Twentieth Century Poetry; A...
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More books by Harold Monro…
“When the tea is brought at five o'clock
And all the neat curtains are drawn with care,
The little black cat with bright green eyes
Is suddenly purring there.”
Harold Monro, Collected Poems
tags: cats, tea

“What I saw was just one eye
In the dawn as I was going:
A bird can carry all the sky
In that little button glowing.

Never in my life I went
So deep into the firmament.”
Harold Monro, Collected Poems
tags: birds, dawn, sky

“Here is the soundless cypress on the lawn:
It listens, listens. Taller trees beyond
Listen. The moon at the unruffled pond
Stares. And you sing, you sing.

That star-enchanted song falls through the air
From lawn to lawn down terraces of sound,
Darts in white arrows on the shadowed ground;
And all the night you sing.

My dreams are flowers to which you are a bee
As all night long I listen, and my brain
Receives your song, then loses it again
In moonlight on the lawn.

Now is your voice a marble high and white,
Then like a mist on fields of paradise,
Now is a raging fire, then is like ice,
Then breaks, and it is dawn.”
Harold Monro, Collected Poems