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In Nunhead Cemetery

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 afraid

But I would rather be standing here;

There is nowhere else to go. I have seen this place

From the windows of the train that's going past

Against the sky. This is rain on my face -

It was raining here when I saw it last.

by Charlotte Mary Mew

To A Child In Death

You would have scoffed if we had told you yesterday

Love made us feel, or so it was with me, like some great bird

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 was not for that you were listening When so quietly you slipped away

With half the music of the world unheard.

What shall we do with this strange summer, meant for you, —

Dear, if we see the winter through What shall be done with spring — ?

by Charlotte Mary Mew

Sea Love

Tide be runnin' the great world over:

'Twas only last June month I mind that we

Was thinkin' the toss and the call in the breast of the lover

So everlastin' as the sea.

Heer's the same little fishes that sputter an swim,

Wi' the moon's old glim on the grey, wet sand;

An' him no more to me mor me to him

Than the wind goin' over my hand.

by Charlotte Mary Mew

June 1915

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 away

As are the fearless stars from these veiled lamps of town.

What’s little June to a great broken world with eyes gone dim

From too much looking on the face of grief, the face of dread?

Or what’s the broken word to June and him

by Charlotte Mary Mew

A Farewell

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 painted clay—

Not wantonly, but wisely, shall we say?

As one who, haply, tunes his heart anew.

by Charlotte Mary Mew

From a Window

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 much what happens here

When I’m away: —

How green the screen is across the panes

by Charlotte Mary Mew

I Have Been Through The Gates

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

towers;

The walls are standing to-day, and the gates; I have been through the gates, I have

groped, I have crept

Back, back. There is dust in the streets, and blood; they are empty; darkness is over

them;

by Charlotte Mary Mew

I So Liked Spring

I so liked Spring last year

Because you were here;-

The thrushes too-

Because it was these you so liked to hear-

I so liked you.

This year's a different thing,-

I'll not think of you.

But I'll like the Spring because it is simply spring

by Charlotte Mary Mew

The Changeling

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 the queer brown face, was never,

Never, I know, but half your child!

by Charlotte Mary Mew

My Heart is Lame

My heart is lame with running after yours so fast

Such a long way,

Shall we walk slowly home, looking at all the things we passed

Perhaps to-day?

Home down the quiet evening roads under the quiet skies,

Not saying much,

You for a moment giving me your eyes

When you could bear my touch.

by Charlotte Mary Mew

The Trees Are Down

and he cried with a loud voice: Hurt not the earth, neither the sea, nor the trees - Revelation

They are cutting down the great plane-trees at the end of

the gardens.

For days there has been the grate of the saw, the swish of

the branches as they fall,

The crash of the trunks, the rustle of trodden leaves,

With the 'Whoops' and the 'Whoa', the loud common talk,

the loud common laughs of the men, above it all.

by Charlotte Mary Mew

The Cenotaph

Not yet will those measureless fields be green again

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 as we may tread.

But here, where the watchers by lonely hearths from the thrust of an inward sword have more slowly bled,

We shall build the Cenotaph: Victory, winged, with Peace, winged too, at the column’s head.

And over the stairway, at the foot—oh! here, leave desolate, passionate hands to spread

Violets, roses, and laurel, with the small, sweet, tinkling country things

by Charlotte Mary Mew