Edith Nesbit

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

Edith Nesbit Poems

1. The Prodigal's Return 4/19/2010
2. The Refusal 4/19/2010
3. The Sphinx 4/19/2010
4. The Star 4/19/2010
5. The Temptation 4/19/2010
6. The Touchstone 4/19/2010
7. The Treasure 4/19/2010
8. The Vain Spell 4/19/2010
9. The Vault--After Sedgmoor 4/19/2010
10. The Veil Of Maya 4/19/2010
11. The Way Of Love 4/19/2010
12. The Whirligig Of Time 4/19/2010
13. The Will To Live 4/19/2010
14. This Desirable Mansion 4/19/2010
15. Through The Wood 4/19/2010
16. To A Child 4/19/2010
17. To Her: In Time Of War 4/19/2010
18. To His Lady, 4/19/2010
19. To Hubert 4/19/2010
20. To Vera, Who Asked A Song 4/19/2010
21. Too Late 4/19/2010
22. Town And Country 4/19/2010
23. Trafalgar Day 4/19/2010
24. True Love And New Love 4/19/2010
25. Two Christmas Eves 4/19/2010
26. Two Voices 4/19/2010
27. To One Who Bade Him Work 4/19/2010
28. To One Who Pleaded For Candour In Love 4/19/2010
29. To Rosamund 4/19/2010
30. Until The Dawn 4/19/2010
31. Unofficial 4/19/2010
32. To Iris 4/19/2010
33. To His Lady 4/19/2010
34. To A Tulip-Bulb 4/19/2010
35. These Little Ones 4/19/2010
36. The Stolen God--Lazarus To Dives 4/19/2010
37. The Spider Queen 4/19/2010
38. The Skylark 4/19/2010
39. The Return 4/19/2010
40. The Spell 4/19/2010
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

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.

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