Edith Nesbit

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

Edith Nesbit Poems

201. Wedding Day 4/19/2010
202. Values 4/19/2010
203. Chains Invisible 4/19/2010
204. In Eclipse 4/19/2010
205. Invocation 4/19/2010
206. New Year Song 4/19/2010
207. Possession 4/19/2010
208. Pessimism 4/19/2010
209. La Derniere Robe De Soi 4/19/2010
210. The Beatific Vision 4/19/2010
211. Teint Neutre 4/19/2010
212. Silence 4/19/2010
213. In Sanctuary 4/19/2010
214. The Champion 4/19/2010
215. Mummy Wheat 4/19/2010
216. Before Winter 4/19/2010
217. Summer Song 4/19/2010
218. The Death Of Agnes 4/19/2010
219. A Parting Ii 4/19/2010
220. The Garden 4/19/2010
221. The Point Of View: Ii 4/19/2010
222. The Poor Man's Guest 4/19/2010
223. The Dead To The Living 4/19/2010
224. In The People's Park 4/19/2010
225. Love Well The Hour 4/19/2010
226. Chagrin D'Amour 4/19/2010
227. The Depths Of The Sea 4/19/2010
228. Discretion 4/19/2010
229. Haunted 4/19/2010
230. The Ghost Bereft 4/19/2010
231. Birthday Talk For A Child 4/19/2010
232. A Song Of Trafalgar 4/19/2010
233. The Poet To His Love 4/19/2010
234. The Jilted Lover To His Mother 4/19/2010
235. Shepherds All And Maidens Fair 4/19/2010
236. The Golden Rose 4/19/2010
237. Children's Playground In The City 4/19/2010
238. May Song 4/19/2010
239. Mary Of Magdala 4/19/2010
240. The Enchanted Garden 4/19/2010
Best Poem of Edith Nesbit

The Choice

PLAGUE take the dull and dusty town,
Its paved and sordid mazes,
Now Spring has trimmed her pretty gown
With buttercups and daisies!


With half my heart I long to lie
Among the flowered grasses,
And hear the loving leaves that sigh
As their sweet Mistress passes.


Through picture-shows I make my way
While flower-crowned maids go maying,
And all the cultured things I say
That cultured folk are saying.


For I renounce Spring's darling face,
With may-bloom fresh upon it:
My Mistress lives in Grosvenor-place
And wears...

Read the full of The Choice

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.

[Report Error]