Charlotte Mary Mew

Charlotte Mary Mew

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Charlotte Mary Mew (15 November 1869 – 24 March 1928) was an English poet whose work spans the eras of Victorian poetry and Modernism.
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The Changeling

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Toll no bell for me, dear Father dear Mother, Waste no sighs;
There are my sisters, there is my little brother Who plays in the place called Paradise,
Your children all, your children for ever; But I, so wild,
Your disgrace, with th...
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To A Child In Death

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You would have scoffed if we had told you
Love made us feel, or so it was with me, like some great
Trying to hold and shelter you in its strong wing: — A gay little shadowy smile would have tossed us back such a solemn word,
And it ...
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The Cenotaph

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Not yet will those measureless fields be green
Where only yesterday the wild sweet blood of wonderful youth was shed;
There is a grave whose earth must hold too long, too deep a stain,
Though for ever over it we may speak as proudly...
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From a Window

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Up here, with June, the sycamore throws Across the window a whispering screen; I shall miss the sycamore more I suppose,
Than anything else on this earth that is out in green
But I mean to go through the door without fear, Not caring muc...
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Sea Love

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Tide be runnin' the great world over:'Twas only last June month I mind that
Was thinkin' the toss and the call in the breast of the
So everlastin' as the sea
Heer's the same little fishes that sputter an swim,
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The Farmers Bride

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Three summer's since I chose a maid,
Too young may be - but more's to
At harvest time than bide and woo
When us was wed she turned
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May 1915

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Let us remember Spring will come
To the scorched, blackened woods, where the wounded
Wait with their old wise patience for the heavenly rain,
Sure of the sky: sure of the sea to send its healing breeze,
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A Farewell

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Remember me and smile, as smiling too, I have remembered things that went their way— The dolls with which I grew too wise to play— Or over-wise—kissed, as children do,
And so dismissed them; yes, even as yoy Have done with this poor piece of ...
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My Heart is Lame

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My heart is lame with running after yours so
Such a long way,
Shall we walk slowly home, looking at all the things we
Perhaps to-day
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In Nunhead Cemetery

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It is the clay what makes the earth stick to his spade;
He fills in holes like this year after year;
The others have gone; they were tired, and half
But I would rather be standing here;
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June 1915

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Who thinks of June’s first rose today
Only some child, perhaps, with shining eyes and rough bright hair will reach it down
In a green sunny lane, to us almost as far
As are the fearless stars from these veiled lamps of town...
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I Have Been Through The Gates

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His heart to me, was a place of palaces and pinnacles and shining towers;
I saw it then as we see things in dreams,—I do not remember how long I slept;
I remember the tress, and the high, white walls, and how the sun was always on the to...
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Monsieur Qui Passe

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A purple blot against the dead white
In my friend's rooms, bathed in their vile pink light,
I had not noticed her
She snatched my eyes and threw them back to me:
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In The Fields

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Lord when I look at lovely things which pass, Under old trees the shadow of young
Dancing to please the wind along the grass, Or the gold stillness of the August sun on the August sheaves;
Can I believe there is a heavenlier world than t...
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On the Road to the Sea

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We passed each other, turned and stopped for half an hour, then went our way,
I who make other women smile did not make you—But no man can move mountains in a day
So this hard thing is yet to do
But first I want your life:—before I ...
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The Peddler

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Lend me, a little while, the
That locks your heavy heart, and I'll give you back—Rarer than books and ribbons and beads bright to see,
This little Key of Dreams out of my pack
The road, the road, beyond men's bolted doors,
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