Edith Nesbit

(15 August 1858 – 4 May 1924 / Kennington / Surrey / England)

Edith Nesbit Poems

1. The Refusal 4/19/2010
2. The Temptation 4/19/2010
3. The Vain Spell 4/19/2010
4. The Vault--After Sedgmoor 4/19/2010
5. The Veil Of Maya 4/19/2010
6. The Touchstone 4/19/2010
7. The Treasure 4/19/2010
8. To Her: In Time Of War 4/19/2010
9. To One Who Bade Him Work 4/19/2010
10. To One Who Pleaded For Candour In Love 4/19/2010
11. To Rosamund 4/19/2010
12. To Hubert 4/19/2010
13. To Vera, Who Asked A Song 4/19/2010
14. Town And Country 4/19/2010
15. Trafalgar Day 4/19/2010
16. True Love And New Love 4/19/2010
17. Two Christmas Eves 4/19/2010
18. Two Voices 4/19/2010
19. Until The Dawn 4/19/2010
20. To A Tulip-Bulb 4/19/2010
21. Unofficial 4/19/2010
22. To Iris 4/19/2010
23. To His Lady 4/19/2010
24. These Little Ones 4/19/2010
25. The Stolen God--Lazarus To Dives 4/19/2010
26. The Way Of Love 4/19/2010
27. This Desirable Mansion 4/19/2010
28. Through The Wood 4/19/2010
29. To A Child 4/19/2010
30. The Whirligig Of Time 4/19/2010
31. To His Lady, 4/19/2010
32. The Will To Live 4/19/2010
33. Too Late 4/19/2010
34. The Prodigal's Return 4/19/2010
35. The Sphinx 4/19/2010
36. The Three Kings 4/19/2010
37. To The Queen Of England 4/19/2010
38. The Star 4/19/2010
39. The Spider Queen 4/19/2010
40. The Tree Of Knowledge 4/19/2010
Best Poem of Edith Nesbit

The Choice

PLAGUE take the dull and dusty town,
Its paved and sordid mazes,
Now Spring has trimmed her pretty gown
With buttercups and daisies!


With half my heart I long to lie
Among the flowered grasses,
And hear the loving leaves that sigh
As their sweet Mistress passes.


Through picture-shows I make my way
While flower-crowned maids go maying,
And all the cultured things I say
That cultured folk are saying.


For I renounce Spring's darling face,
With may-bloom fresh upon it:
My Mistress lives in Grosvenor-place
And wears...

Read the full of The Choice

A Tragedy

Among his books he sits all day
To think and read and write;
He does not smell the new-mown hay,
The roses red and white.

I walk among them all alone,
His silly, stupid wife;
The world seems tasteless, dead and done -
An empty thing is life.

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