Monday, November 21, 2016

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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