The renown of Charlotte Mew rests on a mere 28 poems, most of them brief, published in her one book, The Farmer’s Bride. Born in London into a family marked by affliction, she made unrequited passion, insanity and death her recurring subjects; not surprisingly, she died by her own hand. Her poetry’s eccentric music, rural dialect and melancholy outlook make it reminiscent of Thomas Hardy’s.
More By This Poet
Not for That City
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...