CHARLOTTE MEW


Bloomsbury- Londres-Inglaterra, 1869-1928

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

A haunting purple bloom: is there not something in grey skies

And in grey sea? 


I want what world there is behind your eyes,

I want your life and you will not give it me.

Now, if I look, I see you walking down the years,

Young, and through August fields--a face, a thought, a swinging dream

perched on a stile--;

I would have liked (so vile we are!) to have taught you tears


But most to have made you smile.

Today is not enough or yesterday: God sees it all--

Your length on sunny lawns, the wakeful rainy nights--; tell me--;

(how vain to ask), but it is not a question--just a call--;

Show me then, only your notched inches climbing up the garden wall, 

I like you best when you are small.


Is this a stupid thing to say

Not having spent with you one day?

No matter; I shall never touch your hair

Or hear the little tick behind your breast,

And as a flying bird


Brushes the branches where it may not rest

I have brushed your hand and heard

The child in you: I like that best

So small, so dark, so sweet; and were you also then too grave and wise? 


Always I think. Then put your far off little hand in mine;--

Oh! let it rest; 

I will not stare into the early world beyond the opening eyes,

Or vex or scare what I love best.


But I want your life before mine bleeds away--

Here--not in heavenly hereafters--soon,-- 

I want your smile this very afternoon,

(The last of all my vices, pleasant people used to say,

I wanted and I sometimes got--the Moon!)


You know, at dusk, the last bird's cry,

And round the house the flap of the bat's low flight, 
Trees that go black against the sky

And then--how soon the night!

No shadow of you on any bright road again,

And at the darkening end of this--what voice? whose kiss? As if you'd say!


It is not I who have walked with you, it will not be I who take away
Peace, peace, my little handful of the gleaner's grain

From your reaped fields at the shut of day.


Peace! Would you not rather die

Reeling,--with all the cannons at your ear? 

So, at least, would I,

And I may not be here

Tonight, to-morrow morning or next year.

Still I will let you keep your life a little while,

See dear?

I have made you smile.

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