Three Poems
2022; University of Hawaii Press; Volume: 34; Issue: 2 Linguagem: Inglês
10.1353/man.0.0068
ISSN1527-943X
Autores Tópico(s)Poetry Analysis and Criticism
ResumoThree Poems Charlotte Mew (bio) the trees are down —and he cried with a loud voice:Hurt not the earth, neither the sea, nor the trees— Revelation They are cutting down the great plane-trees at the end of the gardens.For days there has been the grate of the saw, the swish of the branches as they fall,The crash of the trunks, the rustle of trodden leaves,With the "Whoops" and the "Whoas," the loud common talk, the loudcommon laughs of the men, above it all. I remember one evening of a long past SpringTurning in at a gate, getting out of a cart, and finding a large dead rat in the mud of the drive.I remember thinking: alive or dead, a rat was a god-forsaken thing,But at least, in May, that even a rat should be alive. The week's work here is as good as done. There is just one bough On the roped bole, in the fine grey rain, Green and high And lonely against the sky. (Down now!—) And but for that, If an old dead rat Did once, for a moment, unmake the Spring, I might never have thought of him again. It is not for a moment the Spring is unmade to-day;These were great trees, it was in them from root to stem:When the men with the "Whoops" and the "Whoas" have carted the whole of the whispering loveliness awayHalf the Spring, for me, will have gone with them. [End Page 81] It is going now, and my heart has been struck with the hearts of the planes;Half my life it has beat with these, in the sun, in the rains, In the March wind, the May breeze,In the great gales that came over to them across the roofs from the great seas. There was only a quiet rain when they were dying; They must have heard the sparrows flying,And the small creeping creatures in the earth where they were lying— But I, all day, I heard an angel crying: "Hurt not the trees." the road to kérity Do you remember the two old people we passed on the road to Kérity,Resting their sack on the stones, by the drenched wayside,Looking at us with their lightless eyes through the driving rain, and then out again,To the rocks, and the long white line of the tide:Frozen ghosts that were children once, husband and wife, father and mother, Looking at us with those frozen eyes; have you ever seen anything quite so chilled or so old? But we—with our arms about each other, We did not feel the cold! the farmer's bride Three summers since I chose a maid,Too young maybe—but more's to doAt harvest-time than bide and woo. When us was wed she turned afraidOf love and me and all things human;Like the shut of a winter's dayHer smile went out, and 'twadn't a woman— More like a little frightened fay. One night, in the Fall, she runned away. "Out 'mong the sheep, her be," they said, Should properly have been abed; But sure enough she wadn't there Lying awake with her wide brown stare.So over seven-acre field and up-along across the down We chased her, flying like a hare Before our lanterns. To Church-Town All in a shiver and a scare [End Page 82] We caught her, fetched her home at last And turned the key upon her, fast. She does the work about the houseAs well as most, but like a mouse: Happy enough to chat and play With birds and rabbits and such as they, So long as men-folk keep away."Not near, not near!" her eyes beseechWhen one of us comes within reach. The women say that beasts in stall Look round like children at her call. I've hardly heard her speak at all. Shy as a leveret, swift as he,Straight and slight as a young larch tree,Sweet as the first wild violets, she,To her wild self...
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