Edith Nesbit Poems
|282.||After Sixty Years||4/19/2010|
|285.||The Gray Folk||4/19/2010|
|286.||Spring Song Iii||4/19/2010|
|287.||A Star In The East||4/19/2010|
|289.||Seed-Time And Harvest||4/19/2010|
|292.||A Last Appeal||4/19/2010|
|294.||At The Sound Of The Drum||4/19/2010|
|295.||A Kentish Garden||4/19/2010|
|297.||The Maiden's Prayer||4/19/2010|
|299.||A Garden Of Girls||4/19/2010|
|300.||St. Valentine's Day||12/31/2002|
|306.||Child's Song In Spring||8/18/2006|
|307.||Age To Youth||4/19/2010|
|308.||A Parting Ii||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 ...
Daphnis dearest, wherefore weave me
Webs of lies lest truth should grieve me?
I could pardon much, believe me:
Dower me, Daphnis, or bereave me,
Kiss me, kill me, love me, leave me,-
Damn me, dear, but don't deceive me!