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Poem: The Point Of View: Ii Post by :traffic-tart Category :Poems Author :Edith Nesbit Date :August 2011 Read :789

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Poem: The Point Of View: Ii


In the wood of lost causes, the valley of tears,
Old hopes, like dead leaves, choke the difficult way;
Dark pinions fold dank round the soul, and it hears:
"It is night, it is night, it has never been day;
Thou hast dreamed of the day, of the rose of delight;
It was always dead leaves and the heart of the night.
Drink deep then, and rest, O thou foolish wayfarer,
For night, like a chalice, holds sleep in her hands."


Then you drain the dark cup, and, half-drugged as you lie
In the arms of despair that is masked as delight,
You thrill to the rush of white wings, and you hear:
"It is day, it is day, it has never been night!
Thou hast dreamed of the night and the wood of lost leaves;
It was always noon, June, and red roses in sheaves,
Unlock the blind lids, and behold the light-bearer
Who holds, like a monstrance, the sun in his hands."

(The end)
Edith Nesbit's poem: Poem: The Point Of View: II

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Age To Youth Age To Youth

Age To Youth
Sunrise is in your eyes, and in your heartThe hope and bright desire of morn and May.My eyes are full of shadow, and my partOf life is yesterday.Yet lend my hand your hand, and let us sitAnd see your life unfolding like a scroll,Rich with illuminated blazon, fitFor your arm-bearing soul.My soul bears arms too, but the scroll's rolled tight,Yet the one strip of faded brightness shownProclaims that when 'twas splendid in the lightIts blazon matched your own.(The end)Edith Nesbit's poem: Age To Youth

The Point Of View: I The Point Of View: I

The Point Of View: I
IThere was never winter, summer only: roses,Pink and white and red,Shining down the warm rich garden closes;Quiet trees and lawns of dappled shadow,Silver lilies, whisper of mignonette,Cloth-of-gold of buttercups outspread;Good gold sun that kissed me when we met,Shadows of floating clouds on sunny meadow.In the hay-field, scented, grey,Loving life and love, I lay;By fresh airs blown, drifted into sleep;Slept and dreamed there. Winter was the dream.IISummer never was, was always winter only;Cold and ice and frostOnly, driven by the ice-wind, lonely,In a world of strangers, in the welterOf the puddles and the spiteful wind and sleet,Blinded by the spitting hailstones,