Verse > Anthologies > Alfred H. Miles, ed. > Women Poets of the Nineteenth Century
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Alfred H. Miles, ed.  Women Poets of the Nineteenth Century.  1907.
 
Miscellaneous Poems.
II. A Tragedy (I)
By Edith (Nesbit) Bland (1858–1924)
 
AMONG his books he sits all day
  To think and read and write;
He does not smell the new-mown hay
  The roses red and white.
 
I walk among them all alone,        5
  His silly stupid wife;
The world seems tasteless, dead and done—
  An empty thing is life.
 
At night his window casts a square
  Of light upon the lawn;        10
I sometimes walk and watch it there
  Until the chill of dawn.
 
I have no brain to understand
  The books he loves to read;
I only have a heart and hand        15
  He does not seem to need.
 
He calls me “Child”—lays on my hair
  Thin fingers, cold and mild;
Oh! God of Love, who answers prayer,
  I wish I were a child!        20
 
And no one sees and no one knows
  (He least would know or see)
That ere love gathers next year’s rose
  Death will have gathered me;
 
And on my grave will bindweed pink        25
  And round-faced daisies grow;
He still will read and write and think,
  And never, never know!
 
 
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