Treasure Island

Charlotte Mary Mew

(15 November 1869 – 24 March 1928 / London)

Quotations

  • ''Because all night you have not turned to us or spoken
    It is time for you to wake;''
    Charlotte Mew (1870-1928), British poet. Beside the Bed (l. 12-13). . . Oxford Book of Short Poems, The. P. J. Kavanagh and James Michie, eds. Oxford University Press.
    7 person liked.
    6 person did not like.
  • ''This is only a most piteous pretense of sleep!''
    Charlotte Mew (1870-1928), British poet. Beside the Bed (l. 17). . . Oxford Book of Short Poems, The. P. J. Kavanagh and James Michie, eds. Oxford University Press.
  • ''And if I may not walk in th' old ways and look on
    th' old faces
    I wud sooner sleep.''
    Charlotte Mew (1870-1928), British poet. Old Shepherd's Prayer (l. 17-19). . . Oxford Book of Twentieth-Century English Verse, The. Philip Larkin, ed. (1973) Oxford University Press.
  • ''An' him no more to me nor me to him
    Than the wind goin' over my hand.''
    Charlotte Mew (1870-1928), British poet. Sea Love (l. 7-8). . . Oxford Book of Twentieth-Century English Verse, The. Philip Larkin, ed. (1973) Oxford University Press.
  • ''She does the work about the house
    As well as most, but like a mouse:
    Happy enough to chat and play
    With birds and rabbits and such as they,
    So long as men-folk keep away.''
    Charlotte Mew (1870-1928), British poet. The Farmer's Bride (l. 20-24). . . Oxford Book of Twentieth-Century English Verse, The. Philip Larkin, ed. (1973) Oxford University Press.
  • ''Oh! my God! the down,
    The soft young down of her, the brown,
    The brown of her—her eyes, her hair, her hair . . .''
    Charlotte Mew (1870-1928), British poet. The Farmer's Bride (l. 44-46). . . Oxford Book of Twentieth-Century English Verse, The. Philip Larkin, ed. (1973) Oxford University Press.

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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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