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On the Road to the Sea

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 die I want to see

The world that lies behind the strangeness of your eyes,

There is nothing gay or green there for my gathering, it may be,

Yet on brown fields there lies

by Charlotte Mary Mew

Absence

Sometimes I know the way

You walk, up over the bay;

It is a wind from that far sea

That blows the fragrance of your hair to me.

Or in this garden when the breeze

Touches my trees

To stir their dreaming shadows on the grass

I see you pass.

by Charlotte Mary Mew

In The Fields

Lord when I look at lovely things which pass,

Under old trees the shadow of young leaves

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 this?

And if there is

Will the heart of any everlasting thing

Bring me these dreams that take my breath away?

by Charlotte Mary Mew

Monsieur Qui Passe

A purple blot against the dead white door

In my friend's rooms, bathed in their vile pink light,

I had not noticed her before

She snatched my eyes and threw them back to me:

She did not speak till we came out into the night,

Paused at this bench beside the klosk on the quay.

God knows precisely what she said—

I left to her the twisted skein,

by Charlotte Mary Mew

The Peddler

Lend me, a little while, the key

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,

There shall I walk and you go free of me,

For yours lies North across the moors,

And mine lies South. To what seas?

by Charlotte Mary Mew

A Quoi Bon Dire

Seventeen years ago you said

Something that sounded like Good-bye;

And everybody thinks that you are dead,

But I.

So I, as I grow stiff and cold

To this and that say Good-bye too;

And everybody sees that I am old

But you.

by Charlotte Mary Mew

The Farmer's Bride

Three summer's since I chose a maid,

Too young may be - but more's to do

At harvest time than bide and woo.

When us was wed she turned afraid

Of love and me and all things human;

Like the shut of a winter's day.

Her smile went out, and 'twasn't a woman-

More like a little frightened fay.

by Charlotte Mary Mew

May 1915

Let us remember Spring will come again

To the scorched, blackened woods, where the wounded trees

Wait with their old wise patience for the heavenly rain,

Sure of the sky: sure of the sea to send its healing breeze,

Sure of the sun, and even as to these

Surely the Spring, when God shall please,

Will come again like a divine surprise

To those who sit today with their great Dead, hands in their hands

by Charlotte Mary Mew