On the Road to the Sea
We passed each other, turned and stopped for half an hour,then went our way,I who make other women smile did not make you--But no man can move mountains in a day.So this hard thing is yet to do.
But first I want your life:--before I die I want to seeThe 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 liesA haunting purple bloom: is there not something in grey skiesAnd in grey sea?I want what world there is behind your eyes,I want your life and you will not give it to me.
Now, if I look, I see you walking down the years,Young, and through August fields--a face, a thought,a swinging dream perched on a stile--;I would have liked (so vile we are!) to have taught you tearsBut most to have made you smile.
To-day is not enough or yesterday: God sees it all--Your length on sunny lawns, the wakeful rainy nights--; tell me--;(how vain to ask),but it is not a question--just a call--;Show me then, only your notched inches climbing up the garden wall,I like you best when you were small.
Is this a stupid thing to sayNot having spent with you one day?No matter; I shall never touch your hairOr hear the little tick behind your breast.Still it is there,And as a flying birdBrushes the branches where it may not restI have brushed your hand and heardThe child in you: I like that best
So small, so dark, so sweet; and were you also then too graveand wise?Always I think. Then put your far off little hand inmine;--Oh! let it rest;I will not stare into the early world beyond the opening eyes,Or vex or scare what I love best.But I want your life before mine bleeds away--Here--not in heavenly hereafters--soon,--I want your smile this very afternoon,(The last of all my vices, pleasant people used to say,I wanted and I sometimes got--the Moon!)
You know, at dusk, the last bird’s cry,And round the house the flap of the bat’s low flight,Trees that go black against the skyAnd then--how soon the night!
No shadow of you on any bright road again,And at the darkening end of this--what voice? whose kiss? As ifyou’d say!It is not I who have walked with you, it will not be I who take awayPeace, peace, my little handful of the gleaner’s grainFrom your reaped fields at the shut of day.
Peace! Would you not rather dieReeling,--with all the cannons at your ear?So, at least, would I,And I may not be hereTo-night, to-morrow morning or next year.Still I will let you keep your life a little while,See dear?I have made you smile.
Words in this poem
- went n.
- Course; way; path; journey; direction.
- strangeness n.
- The state or quality of being strange (in any sense of the adjective).
- stile n.
- A pin set on the face of a dial, to cast a shadow; a style. See Style. Moxon. [See Style.]
- sunny a.
- Of or pertaining to the sun; proceeding from, or resembling the sun; hence, shining; bright; brilliant; radiant.
- wakeful a.
- Not sleeping; indisposed to sleep; watchful; vigilant.
- shall v. i.
- To owe; to be under obligation for. [OE. shal, schal, imp. sholde, scholde, AS. scal, sceal, I am obliged, imp. scolde, sceolde, inf. sculan; akin to OS. skulan, pres. skal, imp. skolda, D. zullen,]
- scare v. t.
- To frighten; to strike with sudden fear; to alarm. [OE. skerren, skeren, Icel. skirra to bar, prevent, skirrask to shun , shrink from; or fr. OE. skerre, adj., scared, Icel. skjarr; both perhaps akin to E. sheer ]
- afternoon n.
- The part of the day which follows noon, between noon and evening.
- handful n.
- As much as the hand will grasp or contain. [AS. handfull.]
Definitions and etymologies from Webster's Unabridged Dictionary, 1913.
About this text
On the Road to the Sea is in the public domain. This text is taken from The farmer's bride, Project Gutenberg ebook #71305; the transcription's header, footer and licence were removed and nothing else was changed. You may copy, print and reuse it freely.
Cite as: Charlotte Mew, On the Road to the Sea, in The Farmer's Bride (1916), text of Project Gutenberg ebook #71305, Laurel, https://laurelpoetry.com/poem/mew-farmers-bride/on-the-road-to-the-sea.html, id L02471.
Form and metre
On the Road to the Sea is 62 lines in 9 stanzas. This poem did not settle on a metre of its own; the book it comes from is in iambic pentameter. 97% of its stressed syllables fall where the metre puts the beat. The lines average 9.5 syllables. 29% of the lines run on without a stop at the line end.
See other poems in iambic pentameter.
Measured by Laurel's pipeline, not copied from a handbook: how stress and metre are counted, how rhyme is lettered, how a drifted rhyme is found. Where the dictionary cannot confirm a rhyme the letter is withheld, not guessed.
Rhyme words, stanza by stanza
The word that ends each line, lettered by the rhyme it makes; a dash is a line whose rhyme the dictionary could not confirm.
- 1 -ABAB hour · wayA · youB · dayA · doB
- 2 ABABBABA seeA · eyesB · beA · liesB · skiesB · seaA · eyesB · meA
- 3 A-BAB yearsA · thought · stileB · tearsA · smileB
- 4 A--AAA allA · me · ask · callA · wallA · smallA
- 5 AABCBDCDC sayA · dayA · hairB · breastC · thereB · birdD · restC · heardD · bestC
- 6 -A-BABCDDCD grave · wiseA · in · restB · eyesA · bestB · awayC · soonD · afternoonD · sayC · moonD
- 7 ABAB cryA · flightB · skyA · nightB
- 8 A-BBAB againA · if · sayB · awayB · grainA · dayB
- 9 ABABBCBC dieA · earB · iA · hereB · yearB · whileC · dearB · smileC
Scansion, line by line
Each line with its syllable count and the stresses the words themselves fix: / stressed, ˘ unstressed, · a syllable the word leaves free and the metre decides. Read against iambic pentameter. How this is done.
| Line | Syl. | Stress |
|---|---|---|
| We passed each other, turned and stopped for half an hour, | 12 | ···/˘······/ |
| then went our way, | 5 | ··/˘· |
| I who make other women smile did not make you-- | 12 | ···/˘/˘····· |
| But no man can move mountains in a day. | 10 | ·····/˘··· |
| So this hard thing is yet to do. | 8 | ········ |
| But first I want your life:--before I die I want to see | 14 | ·············· |
| The world that lies behind the strangeness of your eyes, | 12 | ·······/˘··· |
| There is nothing gay or green there for my gathering, it may be, | 15 | ··/˘······/˘··· |
| Yet on brown fields there lies | 6 | ······ |
| A haunting purple bloom: is there not something in grey skies | 14 | ·/˘/˘····/˘··· |
| And in grey sea? | 4 | ···· |
| I want what world there is behind your eyes, | 10 | ·········· |
| I want your life and you will not give it to me. | 12 | ············ |
| Now, if I look, I see you walking down the years, | 12 | ·······/˘··· |
| Young, and through August fields--a face, a thought, | 10 | ···/˘····· |
| a swinging dream perched on a stile--; | 8 | ·/˘····· |
| I would have liked (so vile we are!) to have taught you tears | 13 | ············· |
| But most to have made you smile. | 7 | ······· |
| To-day is not enough or yesterday: God sees it all-- | 14 | ····˘/·/˘····· |
| Your length on sunny lawns, the wakeful rainy nights--; tell me--; | 14 | ···/˘··/˘/˘··· |
| (how vain to ask), | 4 | ···· |
| but it is not a question--just a call--; | 10 | ·····/˘··· |
| Show me then, only your notched inches climbing up the garden wall, | 16 | ···/˘··/˘/˘··/˘· |
| I like you best when you were small. | 8 | ········ |
| Is this a stupid thing to say | 8 | ···/˘··· |
| Not having spent with you one day? | 8 | ·/˘····· |
| No matter; I shall never touch your hair | 9 | ·/˘··/··· |
| Or hear the little tick behind your breast. | 10 | ···/˘····· |
| Still it is there, | 4 | ···· |
| And as a flying bird | 6 | ···/˘· |
| Brushes the branches where it may not rest | 10 | /˘·/˘····· |
| I have brushed your hand and heard | 8 | ···˘···· |
| The child in you: I like that best | 8 | ········ |
| So small, so dark, so sweet; and were you also then too grave | 14 | ·········/˘··· |
| and wise? | 2 | ·· |
| Always I think. Then put your far off little hand in | 13 | /········/˘·· |
| mine;--Oh! let it rest; | 5 | ····· |
| I will not stare into the early world beyond the opening eyes, | 16 | ·······/˘····/˘· |
| Or vex or scare what I love best. | 8 | ········ |
| But I want your life before mine bleeds away-- | 11 | ·········˘/ |
| Here--not in heavenly hereafters--soon,-- | 9 | ···/˘˘/˘· |
| I want your smile this very afternoon, | 10 | ·····/˘·˘/ |
| (The last of all my vices, pleasant people used to say, | 14 | ·····/˘/˘/˘··· |
| I wanted and I sometimes got--the Moon!) | 10 | ·/˘··/···· |
| You know, at dusk, the last bird’s cry, | 8 | ········ |
| And round the house the flap of the bat’s low flight, | 11 | ··········· |
| Trees that go black against the sky | 8 | ········ |
| And then--how soon the night! | 6 | ······ |
| No shadow of you on any bright road again, | 12 | ·/····/˘··˘/ |
| And at the darkening end of this--what voice? whose kiss? As if | 14 | ···/˘········· |
| you’d say! | 2 | ·· |
| It is not I who have walked with you, it will not be I who take away | 18 | ················˘/ |
| Peace, peace, my little handful of the gleaner’s grain | 12 | ···/˘/······ |
| From your reaped fields at the shut of day. | 9 | ········· |
| Peace! Would you not rather die | 7 | ····/˘· |
| Reeling,--with all the cannons at your ear? | 10 | /˘···/˘··· |
| So, at least, would I, | 5 | ····· |
| And I may not be here | 6 | ······ |
| To-night, to-morrow morning or next year. | 10 | ···/˘/˘··· |
| Still I will let you keep your life a little while, | 12 | ·········/˘· |
| See dear? | 2 | ·· |
| I have made you smile. | 5 | ····· |
The reader shows the same poem with its rhymes coloured and a stress row above each line, the notes beside their stanzas, and any word's definition on a tap; the analysis page takes the whole book apart. How every part of this site was made.