 Poetry: July 06, 2011 Issue [#4487] |
  Poetry
This week: Edith Nesbit Edited by: Stormy Lady  
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The Island
by Edith Nesbit
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?
I, for my part, when the wind sings loud in its might,
I bid it hush---nor awaken again the storm
That swept my heart out to sea on a moonless night,
And dashed it ashore on an island wondrous and warm
Where all things fair and forbidden for ever flower,
Where the worst of life is a dream, and the best comes true,
Where the harvest of years was reaped in a single hour
And the gods, for once, were honest with me and you.
I will not hear when the wind and the sea cry out,
I will not trust again to the hurrying wind,
I will not swim again in a sea of doubt,
And reach that shore with the world left well behind;
But you,---I would have you listen to every call
Of the changing wind, as it blows over marsh and main,
And heap life's joys in your hands, and offer them all,
If only your feet might touch that island again!
The Kiss by Edith Nesbit
The snow is white on wood and wold,
The wind is in the firs,
So dead my heart is with the cold,
No pulse within it stirs,
Even to see your face, my dear,
Your face that was my sun;
There is no spring this bitter year,
And summer's dreams are done.
The snakes that lie about my heart
Are in their wintry sleep;
Their fangs no more deal sting and smart,
No more they curl and creep.
Love with the summer ceased to be;
The frost is firm and fast.
God keep the summer far from me,
And let the snakes' sleep last!
Touch of your hand could not suffice
To waken them once more;
Nor could the sunshine of your eyes
A ruined spring restore.
But ah-your lips! You know the rest:
The snows are summer rain,
My eyes are wet, and in my breast
The snakes' fangs meet again.
Edith Nesbit was born on August 15, 1858 in London, England. Edith lived in London with her father John and mother Sarah and her brothers and sisters. She had a very happy childhood up until her father's untimely death. Her father's death and the failing healther of one of her sisters was hard on the family causing them to move around the countryside a lot over the next couple of years. Edith was eventually sent off to boarding school. She studied in England, France and Germany. She spent a lot of her time homesick, which showed in her early poems.
By the age of seventeen she had published her first poem with many more to follow. Edith was in her twenties when she started writing short stories and children's novels. Many of her children's books were published under E. Nesbit. On April 22, 1880 Edith married Hubert Bland. Their marriage was a rocky one and had its share of infidelity. Hubert's involvements with the Fabian Society lead Edith to become an activist and co-founder of the Fabian Society, which was considered a precursor to the modern Labor Party. Edith cut her hair short and embraced the women's movement fully.
Edith published her works through companies such as Pall Mall Gazette, Girls' Own Paper, and London's Weekly Dispatch. Edith's novel The Story of the Treasure-Seekers was published 1899 followed by The Wouldbegoods in 1901, and Five Children and It in 1902. Then she published The Pheonix and the Carpet in1904, and in that same year she published The New Treasurer-Seekers. Her novel The Railway Children came out in 1906 and The Enchanted Castle in 1907. In 1908 her political poems were published in the collection Ballads and Lyrics of Socialism. The Magic World was published in 1912. In 1914 Edith's husband Hubert died. Edith eventually remarried Thomas Tucker. The two stayed married until her death.
In total Edith Nesbit published around forty books for children, these contained novels and short stories. Edith also had almost as many works published with other authors as she did on her own. Edith also wrote several children's plays too. Edith Nesbit died on May 4, 1924. She is buried in the churchyard of St Mary's in the Marsh, Kent, England.
The Old Magic by Edith Nesbit
Gray is the sea, and the skies are gray;
They are ghosts of our blue, bright yesterday;
And gray are the breasts of the gulls that scream
Like tortured souls in an evil dream.
There is white on the wings of the sea and sky,
And white are the gulls' wings wheeling by,
And white, like snow, is the pall that lies
Where love weeps over his memories.
For the dead is dead, and its shroud is wrought
Of good unfound and of wrong unsought;
Yet from God's good magic there ever springs
The resurrection of holy things.
See--the gold and blue of our yesterday
In the eyes and the hair of a child at play;
And the spell of joy that our youth beguiled
Is woven anew in the laugh of the child.
Thank you all!
Stormy Lady
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