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.
At night his window casts a square
Of light upon the lawn;
I sometimes walk and watch it there
Until the chill of dawn.
I have no brain to understand
The books he loves to read;
I only have a heart and hand
He does not seem to need.
He calls me "Child" - lays on my hair
Thin fingers, cold and mild;
Oh! God of Love, who answers prayer,
I wish I were a child!
And no one sees and no one knows
(He least would know or see),
That ere Love gathers next year's rose
Death will have gathered me.
Read this poem in other languages
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
Comments about this poem (A Tragedy by Edith Nesbit )
The Road Not Taken
If You Forget Me
Still I Rise
Edgar Allan Poe
I Know Why The Caged Bird Sings
Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening
William Ernest Henley
Did you read them?
- Baltic nights, Mario,Lucien,Rene Odekerken
- the perfect girl, glen pugh
- Raining Love, Sandra Feldman
- I Still Read, An Apology For Someone Pro.., Michael McParland
- Not Missed, Michael McParland
- Trigger Happy, Alem Hailu Gabre Kristos
- I Am Nobody, Michael McParland
- Goodbye, Michael McParland
- Farewell, Michael McParland
- Falling, Michael McParland