Edith Nesbit Poems
|124.||Song Of Long Ago||4/19/2010|
|125.||The Garden Refused||4/19/2010|
|131.||The Old Dispensation||4/19/2010|
|132.||The Moat House||4/19/2010|
|143.||From The Tuscan||4/19/2010|
|144.||In The Enchanted Tower||4/19/2010|
|146.||Love And Knowledge||4/19/2010|
|147.||Love And Life||4/19/2010|
|153.||Faute De Mieux||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|
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?