Aw, I feel it's very hard for me to pass on my love for Charlotte Mew because I get so ridiculous about her work. My admiration for her is just this kAw, I feel it's very hard for me to pass on my love for Charlotte Mew because I get so ridiculous about her work. My admiration for her is just this kind of ceaselessly multiplying wave of softheartedness and solitary sadness and pure fangirl flailing which assaults my soul whenever I read her poems.
Favourite bits (oh, I am so sentimental, I like the sweetest / softest / sincerest poems not the most clever ones):
Red is the strangest pain to bear; In Spring the leaves on the budding trees; In Summer the roses are worse than these, More terrible than they are sweet: A rose can stab you across the street Deeper than any knife; And the crimson haunts you everywhere - Thin shafts of sunlight like the ghosts reddened swords have stuck our stair As if, coming down, you had split your life.
from 'The Quiet House'
But first I want your life: - before I die I want to see The world that lies behind the strangeness of your eyes There is nothing gay or green there for my gathering, it may be, Yet on brown fields there lies A haunting purple bloom: is there not something in grey skies And in grey sea? I want what world there is behind your eyes, I want your life and you will not give it me.
from 'On the Road to the Sea' (which in its entity is probably my favourite poem in the book)
My heart is lame with running after yours so fast Such a long way, Shall we walk slowly home, looking at all the things we passed Perhaps to-day?
Home down the quiet evening roads under the quiet skies, Not saying much, Yo for a moment giving me your eyes When you could bear my touch.
But not to-morrow. This has taken all my breath; Then, though you look the same, There may be something lovelier in Love's face in death As your heart sees it, running back the way we came; My heart is lame.'
Browning is rapidly becoming a serious contender for the title of my favourite Victorian writer, seconded only by George Eliot and Henry James. You siBrowning is rapidly becoming a serious contender for the title of my favourite Victorian writer, seconded only by George Eliot and Henry James. You simply can't stop yourself from rereading his savage verses until they're imprinted in your memory. I really need to read the courtship correspondence between him and EBB....more