I remember rooms that have had their part
In the steady slowing down of the heart;
The room in Paris, the room at Geneva,
The little damp room with the seaweed smell
And the ceaseless maddening sound of the tide –
Rooms where for good or for ill, things died;
But there is the room where we two lie dead
Though every morning we seem to wake, and might just as well seem to sleep again
As we shall some day in the other dustier quieter bed
Out there – in the sun – in the rain.
By Charlotte Mew
I would love to hear your thoughts on this piece and so please do join in the conversation with your comments below. I look forward to hearing from you!