Poem by Charlotte Mew

* * *

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. 

1. Monsieur Qui Passe
2. The Peddler
3. June, 1915
4. The Road To Kerity
5. On the Road to the Sea

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