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Poem by Charlotte Mew
Sometimes in the over-heated house, but not for long, Smirking and speaking rather loud, I see myself among the crowd, Where no one fits the singer to his song, Or sifts the unpainted from the painted faces Of the people who are always on my stair; They were not with me when I walked in heavenly places; But could I spare In the blind Earth's great silences and spaces, The din, the scuffle, the long stare If I went back and it was not there? Back to the old known things that are the new, The folded glory of the gorse, the sweetbriar air, To the larks that cannot praise us, knowing nothing of what we do, And the divine, wise trees that do not care. Yet, to leave Fame, still with such eyes and that bright hair! God! If I might! And before I go hence Take in her stead To our tossed bed One little dream, no matter how small, how wild. Just now, I think I found it in a field, under a fence - A frail, dead, new-born lamb, ghostly and pitiful and white A blot upon the night, The moon's dropped child.
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