Charlotte Mew was born in London's Bloomsbury, in the family of architect Frederick Mew who designed City Hall in Hampstead. Charlotte's father died in 1898 leaving no stable income to his family. After his death, left a widow, Charlotte and her sister, Anna. The sisters have agreed never to marry, more out of fear pass on to those mental illness.
In 1894, Mew was able to incorporate his story in the book «The Yellow Book», in this period, it almost did not write poetry. Her first poetry collection, "The Bride farmer," was published in 1916, published by Poetry Bookshop; in the U.S. went out under the name "Saturday Market" in The collection brought her popularity and recognition, in particular British collector and museum curator Sidney Cockrell. Mew poetic talent was broad. Some of her poems, such as "Madeleine in the church" are a passionate reflection on faith in God, others were proto-modern in form and atmosphere.
Mew gained the support of several major writers, in particular supported by Thomas Hardy, who called Charlotte the best poet of her time, Virginia Woolf, who responded to it as "very good and no one else like" and Siegfried Sassoon. With the assistance of Cockrell, Hardy, John Meysfilda and Walter de la Mar, Mew could get a small pension from the social civil list, which helped improve very straitened financial circumstances poetess. After the death of her sister Anne, Charlotte went into a severe depression and was placed in a psychiatric hospital, where she had committed suicide by drinking Lysol. She is buried in the cemetery at Hampstead.
My Heart is Lame 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, You 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. I So Liked Spring I so liked Spring last year Because you were here;- The thrushes too- Because it was these you so liked to hear- I so liked you. This year's a different thing,- I'll not think of you. But I'll like the Spring because it is simply spring As the thrushes do.