His heart to me, was a place of palaces and pinnacles and shining towers;
I saw it then as we see things in dreams,—I do not remember how long I slept;
I remember the tress, and the high, white walls, and how the sun was always on the towers;
The walls are standing to-day, and the gates; I have been through the gates, I have groped, I have crept
Back, back. There is dust in the streets, and blood; they are empty; darkness is over them;
His heart is a place with the lights gone out, forsaken by great winds and the heavenly rain, unclean and unswept,
Like the heart of the holy city, old blind, beautiful Jerusalem;
Over which Christ wept
About the poet |
Charlotte Mew |
By the same poet |
Sea Love |
On the Road to the Sea |
The Peddler |
To a Child in Death |
Madeleine in Church |
The Farmer’s Bride |
The Trees are Down |
Ken |
In Nunhead Cemetery |
The Cenotaph |
On the Asylum Road |
June, 1915 |
The Call |
Beside the Bed |
Related books |
Charlotte Mew at amazon.co.uk |