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Poem by Edith Nesbit


To Vera, who Asked a Song


IF I only had time!
I could make you a rhyme.
But my time is kept flying
By smiling and sighing
And living and dying for you.
The song-seed, I sow it,
I water and hoe it,
But never can grow it.
Ah, traitress, you know it!
What is a poor poet to do?

Ah, let me take breath!
I am harried to death
By the loves and the graces
That crowd where your face is
That lurk in your laces and throng.
Call them off for a minute,
Once let me begin it
The devil is in it
If I can not spin it
As sweet as a linnet, your song!



Edith Nesbit


Edith Nesbit's other poems:
  1. This Desirable Mansion
  2. The Spider Queen
  3. In Eclipse
  4. The Monk
  5. To Rosamund


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