Charlotte Mary Mew

(15 November 1869 – 24 March 1928 / London)

Charlotte Mary Mew Poems

1. The Call 7/6/2015
2. The Road To Kerity 3/25/2012
3. Fin De Fête 3/25/2012
4. Song 3/25/2012
5. Madeline In Church 3/25/2012
6. Not For That City 3/25/2012
7. Pêcheresse 3/25/2012
8. Ken 3/25/2012
9. Moorland Night 3/25/2012
10. The Voice 3/25/2012
11. The Sunlit House 3/25/2012
12. Fame 1/28/2014
13. The Forest Road 3/25/2012
14. June, 1915 11/25/2014
15. In Nunhead Cemetary 3/25/2012
16. Monsieur Qui Passe 1/3/2003
17. The Peddler 1/3/2003
18. Sea Love 1/3/2003
19. The Cenotaph 1/3/2003
20. From A Window 1/3/2003
21. I Have Been Through The Gates 1/3/2003
22. In The Fields 1/3/2003
23. Absence 1/3/2003
24. The Trees Are Down 1/3/2003
25. The Farmer's Bride 1/3/2003
26. The Changeling 1/3/2003
27. A Quoi Bon Dire 1/3/2003
28. A Farewell 1/3/2003
29. On The Road To The Sea 1/3/2003
30. I So Liked Spring 1/3/2003
31. My Heart Is Lame 1/3/2003
Best Poem of 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.

But not to-morrow. This has taken all my breath;
Then, though you look the same,
There may be something lovelier in Love's face in death
As your heart sees it, running back the way we came;
My heart is lame.

Read the full of My Heart Is Lame

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! he

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