Edith Nesbit (15 August 1858 – 4 May 1924 / Kennington / Surrey / England)
OH! I admit I'm dull and poor,
And plain and gloomy, as you tell me;
And dozens flock around your door
Who in all points but one excel me.
You smile on them, on me you frown,
They worship for the wage you pay;
I lay life, love, and honour down
For you to walk on every day.
I am the only one who sees
That though such gifts can never move you,
A meagre price are gifts like these
For life's high privilege--to love you.
I am the one among your train
Who sees that loving you is worth
A thousand times the certain gain
Of all the heaped-up joys of earth.
And you, who know as well as I,
What your glass tells you every morning--
A kindred soul you should descry,
Dilute with sympathy your scorning.
At least you should approve the intense
Love that gives all for you to waste;
Your other lovers have more sense,
Admit that I have better taste.
Comments about this poem (The Claim by Edith Nesbit )
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