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THE FARMER'S BRIDE
Charlotte Mew (1869-1928)
This is the second time since I began this poetry project over a year ago that I am featuring a poem by a poet whose work has graced these pages once before. The first poem by Ms. Mew to appear here was "Old Shepherd's Prayer." As is the case with the current selection, it is a wonderful work, which I recommend that you revisit, if you haven't done so lately. You can find it here at our website. If you do this, you will also find some background information on the tragic life of this highly talented woman.
There is, by the way, a fine 1988 biography of Ms. Mew available entitled Charlotte Mew and Her Friends, written by the awarding novelist Penelope Fitzgerald and published by Addison-Wesley. This book also contains a large selection of Ms. Mew's poems. "The Farmer's Bride" is most probably her best known work. When you read it, I think you will understand why.
Please enjoy.
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The Farmer's Bride
Three Summers since I chose a maid,
Too young maybe - but more's to do
At harvest-time than bide and woo.
When us was wed she turned afraid
Of love and me and all things human;
Like the shut of a winter's day.
Her smile went out, and 'twasn't a woman--
More like a little, frightened fay.
One night, in the Fall, she runned away.
"Out 'mong the sheep, her be," they said,
'Should properly have been abed;
But sure enough she wasn't there
Lying awake with her wide brown stare.
So over seven-acre field and up-along across the down
We chased her, flying like a hare
Before our lanterns. To Church-Town
All in a shiver and a scare
We caught her, fetched her home at last
And turned the key upon her, fast.
She does the work about the house
As well as most, but like a mouse:
Happy enough to chat and play
With birds and rabbits and such as they,
So long as men-folk stay away.
"Not near, not near!" her eyes beseech
When one of us comes within reach.
The women say that beasts in stall
Look round like children at her call.
I've hardly heard her speak at all.
Shy as a leveret, swift as he,
Straight and slight as a young larch tree,
Sweet as the first wild violets, she,
To her wild self. But what to me?
The short days shorten and the oaks are brown,
The blue smoke rises to the low gray sky,
One leaf in the still air falls slowly down,
A magpie's spotted feathers lie
On the black earth spread white with rime,
The berries redden up to Christmas-time.
What's Christmas-time without there be
Some other in the house than we!
She sleeps up in the attic there
Alone, poor maid. 'Tis but a stair
Betwixt us. Oh, my God! - the down,
The soft young down of her; the brown,
The brown of her - her eyes, her hair, her hair . . .
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