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

Comments about Charlotte Mary Mew

  • This Guy Was A Gay Rapist Wtf (1/4/2016 2:05:00 PM)

    SO SAD, SHE'S DEAD YOU SPASDICK Mohit Chahal

    2 person liked.
    6 person did not like.
  • Fabrizio Frosini Fabrizio Frosini (11/5/2015 10:09:00 AM)

    didn't know Charlotte Mary Mew and her beautiful poetry.. thanks PH

  • Mohit Chahal Mohit Chahal (12/16/2013 5:29:00 AM)

    You are really good. Well done. I really like your poems.

Best Poem of 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
As the thrushes do.

Read the full of I So Liked Spring

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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