SATURDAY MA RK ET By CHARLOTTE M EW NEW YO RK TH E M ACM ILLAN CO M PANY Prin t ed in Engla nd at Th e Wes m n st e P e ss a ow Road t i r r , H rr , W Lon o n . d , THE AUTHOR begs to thank the Editors of The Na tion The Westmins ter Gazette The New Weekl , , y, ' The En lzshwoman The E oist Th e Gra hic Th e g , g , p , Ath em um Th e Cha book e r , and p for p mission to reprint some of the poems in this book . To fe of e u a o He li th e , and tho gavest him l ng life e ven for ever CONTENTS ’ THE FARMER S BRIDE FAME ” THE NARROW DOOR THE FETE BESIDE THE BED IN NUNHEAD CEMETERY THE PEDLAR PEOHERESSE THE CHANGELING A Q UOI BO N DIRE THE Q UIET HOUSE O N THE ASYLUM ROAD JOUR DES MORTS (CIMETIERE MONTPARNASSE) THE FOREST ROAD MADELEINE IN CHURCH EXSPECTO RESURRECTIONEM O N THE ROAD To THE SEA THE SUNLIT HOUSE THE SHADE CATCHERS LE SACRE C(EUR (MONTMARTRE) SONG SATURDAY MARKET ARRACOMBE WOOD SEA LOVE THE ROAD TO KERITY Q I HAVE BEEN THROUGH THE GATES THE CENOTAPH THE FARMER ’ S BRIDE HREE I Summers since chose a maid , — ’ TO O 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 . ’ ’ twasn t Her smile went out , and a woman t More like a li tle frightened fay . One night , in the Fall , she runned away . ’ u t O mong the sheep , her be , they said , ’ Should properly have been abed But sure enough she wasn ’ t there L a ying awake with her wide brown st re . over seven- acre field and u p -a long across the 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 ab out the house as As well most , but like a mouse Happy enough to chat and play With birds and rabbits and such as they, - SO long as men folk keep away . not Not near , near her eyes beseech When one of us comes within reach . The women say that beasts in stall L ook 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 , as fir w i s h e Sweet the st ild v olets , , To her wild self . But what to me I I d The short ays shorten and the oaks are brown , r sk The blue smoke ises to the low grey y, s One leaf in the still air falls lowly down , ’ A magpie s spotted feathers lie e On the black earth spread whit with rime , s - The berries redden up to Christma time . ’ What s Chris tmas- time without there be Some other in the house than we She sleeps up in the attic there ’ e id Alon , poor ma . Tis but a stair x Betwi t us . Oh my God the down , Of The soft young down her , the brown , Of —h er The brown her eyes , her hair , her hair 1 2 FAME O METIM ES - e a u bu t not for o in the over h ted ho se , l ng , and a h e S Smirking speaking r t r loud , I see o t he myself am ng crowd , S his Where no one fits the inger to song , Or Sifts the unpainted from the painted faces Of the people who are always on my stair They were not with me when I walked in heavenly places But could I spare ’ an d In the blind Earth s great silences spaces , f The din , the scu fle , the long stare If I went back and it was not there O ld Back to the known things that are the new , Th e of - r folded glory the gorse , the sweet b iar air , s To the larks that cannot prai e us , know n nothing of what we s And the divine , wise tree that do not care Yet , to leave Fame , still with such eyes and that bright hair God If I might And before I go hence Take in he r stead ou r To tossed bed , h ow One little dream , no matter how small , wild . n Just now , I think I fou d it in a field , under a fence - A frail , dead , new born lamb , ghostly and pitiful and white , A blot upon the night , The moon ’s dropped child I 3 THE NARROW DOOR r HE na row door , the narrow door On the three steps of which the café children play Mostly at shop with pebbles from the shore , It is always shut this narrow door for t o- But open a little while day . An d his round it , each with pebbles in hand , A silenced crowd the café children stand To see the long b ox jerking down the bend i on Of tw sted stair then set end , Q uite filling up the narrow door not o Till it comes out and does g in any more . ou see d Along the quay y it win , i The slow black line . Someone pulls up the bl nd Of the small window just above the narrow door ' Tzens u e veux- tu ach eter Réné e q cries , ’ ” M ais our ua t sous des oz nons , p q , lg , Jean replies And one pays down with pebbles from the shore . 3 I 4 THE PETE ’ O - NIGHT again the moon s white mat Stretches across the dormitory floor While outside , like an evil cat ion The p prowls down the dark corridor , t o on e Planning , I know , pounce me , in spit For t o getting leave sleep in town last night . was of wh o But it none us made that noise , Only the old brown owl that hoots and flies — Out Of the ivy h e will say it was us boys ' S ezgneur man Dieu the sacre soul of spies He would like t o catch each dream that lies Hidden behind ou r sleepy eyes — ’ Their dream But mine it is the moon and th at sees All my long life h ow I shall hate the trees ’ P lace d Armes In the , the dusty planes , all Summer through Dozed with the market women in the su n and scarcely stirred To see the quiet things that crossed the Square S A tiny funeral , the flying hadow of a bird , - é L The hump backed barber C lestin emaire , - d Old madame Michel in her three wheele chair , And filing past to Vespers , two and two , demoiselles ensionna t The of the p . Towed like a ship through the harbour bar , a le etit em S fe into port , where p f Perhaps makes nothing Of the look they shot at you ’ S i c est dé endu mails ue e oulez- vous , f , q was su n s It the . The unshine weaves A pattern on dull stones the sunshine leaves The portraiture of dreams upon the eyes Before it dies All Summer through The dust hung white upon the drowsy planes / u Till suddenly they woke with the Aut mn rains . I S It is not only the little boys Who have hardly got away from toys , x But I , who am seventeen ne t year , Some nights , in bed , have grown cold to hear That lonely passion of the rain Which makes you think of being dead , And of somewhere living to lay your head As if you were a child again , k Crying for one thing , nown and near u ar Yo r empty heart , to still the hunger and the fe a That pelts and beats with it gainst the pane . But I remember smiling too At all the sun ’ s soft tricks and those Autumn dreads er th In wint time , when the grey light broke slowly rough - ou r The frosted window lace to drag us shivering from beds . And when at dusk the singing wind swu ng down Straight from the stars to the dark country roads w w Beyond the t inkling to n , i Strik ng the leafless poplar boughs as he went by, Like some poor , stray dog by the wayside lying dead , O ld We left behind us the world of dread , n n I and the wind as we strode whistli g on under the Wi ter sky . And then in Spring for three days came the Fair Just as the planes were starting into bud Above the caravans you saw the dancing bear s u Pa s on his chain and heard the jingle and the th d . Only four days ago They let you out of this dull sh ow TO slither down the montagne russe and chaff the man (i de veau ’ S tir Hit , lick , the bull s eye at the , Spin round and round till your head went queer ‘ orcs- rou lants Oh Id Id la ete On the p .