FROM A WINDOW

Charlotte Mew 1869-1928

Up here, with June, the sycamore throws

   Across the window a whispering screen;

    I shall miss the sycamore more, I suppose,

    Than anything else on this earth that is out in green.

        But I mean to go through the door without fear,

     Not caring much what happens here

       When I’m away -

   How green the screen is across the panes

    Or who goes laughing along the lanes

      With my old lover all summer day. 

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