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Poem by Charlotte Mew


Rooms


I remember rooms that have had their part
     In the steady slowing down of the heart.
The room in Paris, the room at Geneva,
The little damp room with the seaweed smell,
And that ceaseless maddening sound of the tide
     Rooms where for good or for illthings died.
But there is the room where we (two) lie dead,
Though every morning we seem to wake and might just as well seem to sleep again
     As we shall somewhere in the other quieter, dustier bed
     Out there in the sunin the rain.



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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