Edith Nesbit

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

Edith Nesbit Poems

121. Song Iii 4/19/2010
122. Winter 4/19/2010
123. Waterloo Day 4/19/2010
124. Song Of Long Ago 4/19/2010
125. The Garden Refused 4/19/2010
126. The Confession 4/19/2010
127. The Destroyer 4/19/2010
128. The Egoists 4/19/2010
129. The End 4/19/2010
130. The Eternal 4/19/2010
131. The Old Dispensation 4/19/2010
132. The Moat House 4/19/2010
133. The Monk 4/19/2010
134. Magic 4/19/2010
135. Magnificat 4/19/2010
136. May Day 4/19/2010
137. Microcosm 4/19/2010
138. In Hospital 4/19/2010
139. Hope 4/19/2010
140. Hopes 4/19/2010
141. In Absence 4/19/2010
142. In Age 4/19/2010
143. From The Tuscan 4/19/2010
144. In The Enchanted Tower 4/19/2010
145. Indiscretion 4/19/2010
146. Love And Knowledge 4/19/2010
147. Love And Life 4/19/2010
148. Love Guerdons 4/19/2010
149. Invocation Ii 4/19/2010
150. January 4/19/2010
151. Lover's Quarrels 4/19/2010
152. Love's Suicide 4/19/2010
153. Faute De Mieux 4/19/2010
154. Bridal Eve 4/19/2010
155. Spring Song 4/19/2010
156. The Beech Tree 4/19/2010
157. The Ballad Of The White Lady 4/19/2010
158. The Depths Of The Sea 4/19/2010
159. The Destroyer 4/19/2010
160. The Daisies 4/19/2010

Comments about Edith Nesbit

  • Swarali (1/24/2020 8:11:00 AM)

    I want a Poem written by EDITH NESBIT

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  • Someshwar (1/16/2020 7:45:00 AM)

    Tell me poems of edit nesbit

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  • Mr.xdhhshshshsh d (2/20/2019 8:35:00 AM)

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  • Sumit sayam (2/27/2018 8:00:00 AM)

    Hagri poem

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  • Rohit Parande (2/21/2018 7:49:00 AM)

    I like poem and story

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Best Poem of Edith Nesbit

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.

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 ...

Read the full of A Tragedy

The Island

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?

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