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Full Online Book HomePoemsThe Vault--after Sedgmoor
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The Vault--after Sedgmoor Post by :jstrellner Category :Poems Author :Edith Nesbit Date :August 2011 Read :2859

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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!

(The end)
Edith Nesbit's poem: Vault--After Sedgmoor

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Values Values

Did you deceive me? Did I trustA heart of fire to a heart of dust?What matter? Since once the world was fair,And you gave me the rose of the world to wear.That was the time to live for! Flowers,Sunshine and starshine and magic hours,Summer about me, Heaven above,And all seemed immortal, even Love.Well, the mortal rose of your love was worthThe pains of death and the pains of birth;And the thorns may be sharper than death--who knows? -That crowd round the stem of a deathless rose.(The end)Edith Nesbit's poem: Values

Before Winter Before Winter

Before Winter
The wind is crying in the night,Like a lost child;The waves break wonderful and whiteAnd wild.The drenched sea-poppies swoon alongThe drenched sea-wall,And there's an end of summer and of song -An end of all.The fingers of the tortured boughsGripped by the blastClutch at the windows of your houseClosed fast.And the lost child of love, despair,Cries in the night,Remembering how once those windows wereOpen and bright.(The end)Edith Nesbit's poem: Before Winter