The Prodigal Son
COME home, come home, for your eyes are sore
With the glare of the noonday sun,
And nothing looks as it did before,
And the best of the day is done.
You have played your match, and ridden your race,
You have fought in your fight--and lost;
And life has set its claws in your face,
And you know what the scratches cost.
Out there the world is cruel and loud,
It strikes at the beaten man;
Come out of the press of the stranger crowd
To the place where your life began.
The best robe lies in the cedar chest,
And your father's ring is here;
You have known the worst, come home to the best--
You will pay for it, never fear!
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poem by Edith Nesbit
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The Heart Of Joy
DEAR, do you sigh that your love may not stay with you,
Laugh with and play with you,
Weep with and pray with you,
All his life through?
Think, O my heart, if you never had found me,
Crept through the cere-clothes the world has wound round me,
What would you do?
Wide is the world, and so many would sigh for you,
Long for and cry for you,
Weep for and die for you,
You being you.
I only I, am the man you could sigh for,
Live for and suffer for, sorrow and die for,
Twenty lives through.
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poem by Edith Nesbit
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In Absence
WAKE, do you wake in the dark in the strange far place,
Window and door not set like the ones we knew,
Leaning your face through the dark for another face,
Stretching your arms to the arms that are far from you,
Even as I, through the depth of this darkness, do?
Sleep, do you sleep in the house in the lonely land?
In the lonely room do you hear no steps draw near?
Do you miss in the darkness the hand that implores your hand,
See through the darkness your last dream disappear,
And weep, as I weep, in the outer darkness here?
Dream, do you dream? Nay, never a dream will stay,
Never a phantom is fond, or a vision kind.
Your dreams elude you and fly through the dark my way,
My dreams fly forth to you whom they may not find;
And we in the darkness weep, we weep and are left behind.
poem by Edith Nesbit
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The Garden Refused
There is a garden made for our delight,
Where all the dreams we dare not dream come true.
I know it, but I do not know the way.
We slip and tumble in the doubtful night,
Where everything is difficult and new,
And clouds our breath has made obscure the day.
The blank unhappy towns, where sick men strive,
Still doing work that yet is never done;
The hymns to Gold that drown their desperate voice;
The weeds that grow where once corn stood alive,
The black injustice that puts out the sun:
These are our portion, since they are our choice.
Yet there the garden blows with rose on rose,
The sunny, shadow-dappled lawns are there;
There the immortal lilies, heavenly sweet.
O roses, that for us shall not unclose!
O lilies, that we shall not pluck or wear!
O dewy lawns untrodden by our feet!
poem by Edith Nesbit
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To His Lady
(Who asked a Song in Spring)
WHY do you bid your poet sing,
Who has no mind to song--
Who only wants to see the Spring,
Long sought and tarrying long?
The shivering, dreary winter through
My song enshrined my vow;
If then my songs were sweet to you,
Let me be silent now!
Have I not duly sung, my dear,
Your goodness and your grace?
Now that your rival, Spring, is here,
O let me see her face!
The hedge is white with buds of May,
The fields are green with Spring,
Oh, give your bard a holiday:
He does not want to sing!
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poem by Edith Nesbit
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A Parting II
I WILL not wake you, dear; no tears shall creep
To chill the still bed where you lie asleep;
No cry, no word, shall break the sanctity
Of the great silence where God lets you lie.
I will not tease your grave with flower or stone;
You are tired, my heart; you shall be left alone.
And even the kisses that my lips must lay
Upon the mould of the triumphant clay
Shall be so soft--like those a mother lays
Upon her sleeping baby's little face--
You will not feel my kisses, will not hear;
You are tired: sleep on, I will not wake you, dear!
But when the good day comes, you will hear me cry,
'Ah, make a little place where I can lie!'
And half awakened, you will feel me creep
Into the folds of your familiar sleep,
And draw them round us, with a tender moan,
'How could you let me sleep so long alone?'
poem by Edith Nesbit
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La Derniere Robe De Soi
OH, silken gown, all pink and pretty,
Bought, quite a bargain, in the City,
Your ill-trained soul full false has played me--
No Paris gown would have betrayed me.
You knew, my pretty silken treasure,
I must not wed for love or pleasure,
But for a settlement and title;
Yet you encouraged his recital!
He said--oh, faithless gown, you listened
While on your sheen two tear drops glistened--
He said . . . let love to music set it,
I'll never speak it--nor forget it!
'No, no!' I cried, I tried to save you--
False gown, you showed the tears I gave you!
You looked discreet when first I found you.
How could you let his arm go round you?
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poem by Edith Nesbit
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The Day Of Judgment
When the bearing and doing are over,
And no more is to do or bear,
God will see us and judge us
The kind of men we were;
And our sins, so ugly and heavy,
We shall drag them into His sight,
And throw them down at the foot of the throne,
Foul on the steps of light.
We shall not be shamed or frightened,
Though the angels are all at hand,
For He will look at our burden,
And He will understand.
He will turn to the little angels,
Agog to hear and obey,
And point to the festering sin-loads
With, 'Take that rubbish away!'
Then the steps will be cleared of the burdens
That we threw down at His feet;
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poem by Edith Nesbit
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A Farewell
Good-bye, good-bye; it is not hard to part!
You have my heart--the heart that leaps to hear
Your name called by an echo in a dream;
You have my soul that, like an untroubled stream,
Reflects your soul that leans so dear, so near -
Your heartbeats set the rhythm for my heart.
What more could Life give if we gave her leave
To give, and Life should give us leave to take?
Only each other's arms, each other's eyes,
Each other's lips, the clinging secrecies
That are but as the written words to make
Records of what the heart and soul achieve.
This, only this we yield, my love, my friend,
To Fate's implacable eyes and withering breath.
We still are yours and mine, though, by Time's theft,
My arms are empty and your arms bereft.
It is not hard to part--not harder than Death;
And each of us must face Death in the end!
poem by Edith Nesbit
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The Appeal
ALL summer-time you said:
'Love has no need of shelter nor of kindness,
For all the flowers take pity on his blindness,
And lead him to his scented rose-soft bed.'
'He is a king,' you said.
'That I bow not the knee will never grieve him,
For all the summer-palaces receive him.'
But now Love has not where to lay his head.
'He is a god,' you said.
'His altars are wherever roses blossom.'
And summer made his altar of her bosom,
But now the altar is ungarlanded.
Take back the words you said:
Out in the rain he shivers broken-hearted;
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poem by Edith Nesbit
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