Complete Novels of E Nesbit

by Edith Nesbit

  In the brown of the copse

  Will white wind-flowers star through

  Where the last oak-leaf drops?

  Will the daisies come too,

  And the may and the lilac? Will Spring come again?

  O thrush, is it true?

  THE PRODIGAL’S RETURN

  I reach my hand to thee!

  Stoop; take my hand in thine;

  Lead me where I would be,

  Father divine.

  I do not even know

  The way I want to go,

  The way that leads to rest:

  But, Thou who knowest me,

  Lead where I cannot see,

  Thou knowest best.

  Toys, worthless, yet desired,

  Drew me afar to roam.

  Father, I am so tired;

  I am come home.

  The love I held so cheap

  I see, so dear, so deep,

  So almost understood.

  Life is so cold and wild,

  I am thy little child —

  I will be good.

  THE SKYLARK

  “. . . a dripping shower of notes from the softening blue. It is the skylark come.” — Robert à Field, in the New Age.

  “It is the skylark come.” For shame!

  Robert-à-Cockney is thy name:

  Robert-à-Field would surely know

  That skylarks, bless them, never go!

  . . . . .

  Love of my life, bear witness here

  How we have heard them all the year;

  How to the skylark’s song are set

  The days we never can forget.

  At Rustington, do you remember?

  We heard the skylarks in December;

  In January above the snow

  They sang to us by Hurstmonceux

  Once in the keenest airs of March

  We heard them near the Marble Arch;

  Their April song thrilled Tonbridge air;

  May found them singing everywhere;

  And oh, in Sheppey, how their tune

  Rhymed with the bean-flower scent in June.

  One unforgotten day at Rye

  They sang a love-song in July;

  In August, hard by Lewes town,

  They sang of joy ‘twixt sky and down;

  And in September’s golden spell

  We heard them singing on Scaw Fell.

  October’s leaves were brown and sere,

  But skylarks sang by Teston Weir;

  And in November, at Mount’s Bay,

  They sang upon our wedding day!

  . . . . .

  Mr.-à-Field, go forth, go forth,

  Go east and west and south and north;

  You’ll always find the furze in flower,

  Find every hour the lovers’ hour,

  And, by my faith in love and rhyme,

  The skylark singing all the time!

  SATURDAY SONG

  They talk about gardens of roses,

  And moonlight over the sea,

  And mountains and snow

  And sunsetty glow,

  But I know what is best for me.

  The prettiest sight I know,

  Worth all your roses and snow,

  Is the blaze of light on a Saturday night,

  When the barrows are set in a row.

  I’ve heard of bazaars in India

  All glitter and spices and smells,

  But they don’t compare

  With the naphtha flare

  And the herrings the coster sells;

  And the oranges piled like gold,

  The cucumbers lean and cold,

  And the red and white block-trimmings

  And the strawberries fresh and ripe,

  And the peas and beans,

  And the sprouts and greens,

  And the ‘taters and trotters and tripe.

  And the shops where they sell the chairs,

  The mangles and tables and bedding,

  And the lovers go by in pairs,

  And look — and think of the wedding.

  And your girl has her arm in yours,

  And you whisper and make her blush.

  Oh! the snap in her eyes — and her smiles and her sighs

  As she fancies the purple plush!

  And you haven’t a penny to spend,

  But you dream that you’ve pounds and pounds;

  And arm in arm with your only friend

  You make your Saturday rounds:

  And you see the cradle bright

  With ribbon — lace — pink and white;

  And she stops her laugh

  And you drop your chaff

  In the light of the Saturday night.

  And the world is new

  For her and you —

  A little bit of all-right.

  THE CHAMPION

  Young and a conqueror, once on a day,

  Wild white Winter rode out this way;

  With his sword of ice and his banner of snow

  Vanquished the Summer and laid her low.

  Winter was young then, young and strong;

  Now he is old, he has reigned too long.

  He shall be routed, he shall be slain;

  Summer shall come to her own again!

  See the champion of Summer wake

  Little armies in field and brake:

  “Cruel and cold has King Winter been;

  Fight for the Summer, fight for the Queen!”

  First the aconite dots the mould

  With little round cannon-balls of gold;

  Then, to help in the winter’s rout,

  Regiments of crocuses march out.

  See the swords of the flag-leaves shine;

  See the shield of the celandine,

  And daffodil lances green and keen,

  To fight for the Summer, fight for the Queen.

  Silver triumphant the snowdrop swings

  Banners that mock at defeated kings;

  And wherever the green of the new grass peers,

  See the array of victorious spears.

  Daffodil trumpets soon shall sound

  Over the garden’s battle-ground,

  And lovely ladies crowd out to see

  The long procession of victory.

  Little daisies with snowy frills,

  Courtly tulips and sweet jonquils,

  Primrose and cowslip, friends well met

  With white wood-sorrel and violet.

  Hundreds of milkmaids by field and fold;

  Thousands of buttercups licked with gold;

  Budding hedges and woods and trees —

  Spring brings freedom and life to these.

  Then the triumphant Spring shall ride

  Over the happy countryside;

  Deep in the woods the birds shall sing:

  “The King is dead — long live the King!”

  But Spring is no king, but a faithful knight;

  He will ride on through the meadows bright

  Till at Summer’s feet he shall light him down

  And lay at her feet the royal crown.

  She will lean down where the roses twine

  Between the may-trees’ silver shine,

  And look in the eyes of the dying knight

  Who led his army and won her fight.

  She will stoop to his lips and say,

  “Oh, live, O love! O my true love, stay!”

  While he smiles and sighs her arms between

  And dies for the Summer, dies for the Queen.

  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!

  THESE LITTLE ONES

  “What of the garden I gave?”

  God said to me;

  “Hast thou been diligent to foster and save

  The life of flower and tree?

  How have the roses thriven,

  The lilies I have given,

  The pretty scented miracles that Spring

  And Summer come to bring?

  “My garden is fair and dear,”

  I said to God;

  “From thorns and nettles I have kept it clear.

  Green-trimmed its sod.

  The rose is red and bright,

  The lily a live delight;

  I have not lost a flower of all the flowers

  That blessed my hours.”

  “What of the child I gave?”

  God said to me;

  “The little, little one I died to save

  And gave in trust to thee?

  How have the flowers grown

  That in its soul were sown,

  The lovely living miracles of youth

  And hope and joy and truth?”

  “The child’s face is all white,”

  I said to God;

  “It cries for cold and hunger in the night:

  Its little feet have trod

  The pavement muddy and cold.

  It has no flowers to hold,

  And in its soul the flowers you set are dead.”

  “Thou fool!” God said.

  THE DESPOT

  The garden mould was damp and chill;

  Winter had had his brutal will

  Since over all the year’s content

  His devastating legions went.

  The Spring’s bright banners came: there woke

  Millions of little growing folk

  Who thrilled to know the winter done,

  Gave thanks, and strove towards the sun.

  Not so the elect; reserved, and slow

  To trust a stranger-sun and grow,

  They hesitated, cowered and hid,

  Waiting to see what others did.

  Yet even they, a little, grew,

  Put out prim leaves to day and dew,

  And lifted level formal heads

  In their appointed garden beds.

  The gardener came: he coldly loved

  The flowers that lived as he approved,

  That duly, decorously grew

  As he, the despot, meant them to.

  He saw the wildlings flower more brave

  And bright than any cultured slave;

  Yet, since he had not set them there,

  He hated them for being fair.

  So he uprooted, one by one,

  The free things that had loved the sun,

  The happy, eager, fruitful seeds

  Who had not known that they were weeds.

  THE MAGIC RING

  Your touch on my hand is fire,

  Your lips on my lips are flowers.

  My darling, my one desire,

  Dear crown of my days and hours.

  Dear crown of each hour and day

  Since ever my life began.

  Ah! leave me — ah! go away —

  We two are woman and man.

  To lie in your arms and see

  The stars melt into the sun;

  Till there is no you and me,

  Since you and I are one.

  To loose my soul to your breath,

  To bare my heart to your life —

  It is death, it is death, it is death!

  I am not your wife.

  The hours will come and will go,

  But never again such an hour

  When the tides immortal flow

  And life is a flood, a flower . . .

  Wait for the ring; it is strong,

  It has a magic of might

  To make all that was splendid and wrong

  Sordid and right.

  PHILOSOPHY

  The sulky sage scarce condescends to see

  This pretty world of sun and grass and leaves;

  To him ’tis all illusion — only he

  Is real amid the visions he perceives.

  No sage am I, and yet, by Love’s decree,

  To me the world’s a masque of shadows too,

  And I a shadow also — since to me

  The only real thing in life is — you.

  THE WHIRLIGIG OF TIME

  Before your feet,

  My love, my sweet,

  Behold! your slave bows down;

  And in his hands

  From other lands

  Brings you another crown.

  For in far climes,

  In bygone times,

  Myself was royal too:

  Oh, I have been

  A king, my queen,

  Who am a slave for you!

  MAGIC

  What was the spell she wove for me?

  Life was a common useful thing,

  An eligible building site

  To hold a house to shelter me.

  There were no woodlands whispering;

  No unimagined dreams at night

  About that house had folded wing,

  Disordering my life for me.

  I was so safe until she came

  With starry secrets in her eyes,

  And on her lips the word of power.

  — Like to the moon of May she came,

  That makes men mad who were born wise —

  Within her hand the only flower

  Man ever plucked from Paradise;

  So to my half-built house she came.

  She turned my useful plot of land

  Into a garden wild and fair,

  Where stars in garlands hung like flowers:

  A moonlit, lonely, lovely land.

  Dim groves and glimmering fountains there

  Embraced a secret bower of bowers,

  And in its rose-ringed heart we were

  Alone in that enchanted land.

  What was the spell I wove for her,

  Her mad dear magic to undo?

  The red rose dies, the white rose dies,

  The garden spits me forth with her

  On the old suburban road I knew.

  My house is gone, and by my side

  A stranger stands with angry eyes

  And lips that swear I ruined her.

  WINDFLOWERS

  When I was little and good

  I walked in the dappled wood

  Where light white windflowers grew,

  And hyacinths heavy and blue.

  The windflowers fluttered light,

  Like butterflies white and bright;

  The bluebells tremulous stood

  Deep in the heart of the wood.

  I gathered the white and the blue,

  The wild wet woodland through,

  With hands too silly and small

  To clasp and carry them all.

  Some dropped from my hands and died

  By the home-road’s grassy side;

  And those that my fond hands pressed

  Died even before the rest.

  AS IT IS

  If you and I

  Had wings to fly —

  Great wings like seagulls’ wings —

  How would we soar

  Above the roar

  Of loud unneeded things!

  We two would rise

  Through changing skies

  To blue unclouded space,
r />   And undismayed

  And unafraid

  Meet the sun face to face.

  But wings we know not;

  The feathers grow not

  To carry us so high;

  And low in the gloom

  Of a little room

  We weep and say good-bye.

  BEFORE WINTER

  The wind is crying in the night,

  Like a lost child;

  The waves break wonderful and white

  And wild.

  The drenched sea-poppies swoon along

  The drenched sea-wall,

  And there’s an end of summer and of song —

  An end of all.

  The fingers of the tortured boughs

  Gripped by the blast

  Clutch at the windows of your house

  Closed fast.

  And the lost child of love, despair,

  Cries in the night,

  Remembering how once those windows were

  Open and bright.

  THE VAULT

  AFTER SEDGMOOR

  You need not call at the Inn;

  I have ordered my bed:

  Fair linen sheets therein

  And a tester of lead.

  No musty fusty scents

  Such as inn chambers keep,

  But tapestried with content

  And hung with sleep.

  My Inn door bears no bar

  Set up against fear.

  The guests have journeyed far,

  They are glad to be here.

  Where the damp arch curves up grey,

  Long, long shall we lie;

  Good King’s men all are they,

  A King’s man I.

  Old Giles, in his stone asleep,

  Fought at Poictiers.

  Piers Ralph and Roger keep

  The spoil of their fighting years.

  I shall lie with my folk at last

  In a quiet bed;

  I shall dream of the sword held fast

  In a round-capped head.

  Good tale of men all told

  My Inn affords;

  And their hands peace shall hold

  That once held swords.

  And we who rode and ran

  On many a loyal quest

  Shall find the goal of man —

  A bed, and rest.

  We shall not stand to the toast

  Of Love or King;

  We be all too tired to boast

  About anything.

  We be dumb that did jest and sing;

  We rest who laboured and warred . . .

  Shout once, shout once for the King.

  Shout once for the sword!

  SURRENDER

  Oh, the nights were dark and cold,

  When my love was gone.

  And life was hard to hold