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Poem by Charlotte Mew


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Not for that city of the level sun,
Its golden streets and glittering gates ablaze
The shadeless, sleepless city of white days,
White nights, or nights and days that are as one
We weary, when all is said , all thought, all done.
We strain our eyes beyond this dusk to see
What, from the threshold of eternity
We shall step into. No, I think we shun
The splendour of that everlasting glare,
The clamour of that never-ending song.
And if for anything we greatly long,
It is for some remote and quiet stair
Which winds to silence and a space for sleep
Too sound for waking and for dreams too deep. 



Charlotte Mew


Charlotte Mew's other poems:
  1. Monsieur Qui Passe
  2. The Cenotaph
  3. In Nunhead Cemetary
  4. Ken
  5. Moorland Night


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