Edith Nesbit Poems
|282.||The Last Defeat||4/19/2010|
|285.||After Sixty Years||4/19/2010|
|287.||The Gray Folk||4/19/2010|
|288.||Spring Song Iii||4/19/2010|
|289.||A Garden Of Girls||4/19/2010|
|290.||A Star In The East||4/19/2010|
|295.||A Last Appeal||4/19/2010|
|297.||At The Sound Of The Drum||4/19/2010|
|298.||A Kentish Garden||4/19/2010|
|300.||The Maiden's Prayer||4/19/2010|
|301.||Age To Youth||4/19/2010|
|302.||St. Valentine's Day||12/31/2002|
|307.||Child's Song In Spring||8/18/2006|
Comments about Edith Nesbit
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 ...
Does the wind sing in your ears at night, in the town,
Rattling the windows and doors of the cheap-built place?
Do you hear its song as it flies over marsh and down?
Do you feel the kiss that the wind leaves here on my face?
Or, wrapt in a lamplit quiet, do you restrain
Thoughts that would take the wind's way hither to me,
And bid them rest safe-anchored, nor tempt again
The tumult, and torment, and passion that live in the sea?