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    Many Voices
    Many Voices
    Many Voices
    Ebook123 pages54 minutes

    Many Voices

    By E. (Edith) Nesbit

    ()

    Read preview
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherArchive Classics
    Release dateJan 1, 2004
    Many Voices

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      Book preview

      Many Voices - E. (Edith) Nesbit

      The Project Gutenberg eBook, Many Voices, by E. Nesbit

      This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with

      almost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away or

      re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included

      with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org

      Title: Many Voices

             Poems

      Author: E. Nesbit

      Release Date: April 18, 2013  [eBook #1924]

      [This file was first posted on February 24, 1999]

      Language: English

      Character set encoding: ISO-646-US (US-ASCII)

      ***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MANY VOICES***

      Transcribed from the 1922 Hutchinson and Co. edition by David Price, email ccx074@pglaf.org

      Many Voices

      POEMS:  By E. NESBIT

      Author of "The Incredible Honeymoon," etc.

      LONDON: HUTCHINSON & CO.

      ::  PATERNOSTER ROW  ::

      To

      my dear

      Daughter in law

      and

      Daughter in love,

      GERTRUDE BLAND

      I, E. Nesbit,

      dedicate

      this book

      Jesson St. Mary’s,

      Romney, 1922.

      CONTENTS

      THE RETURN

      The grass was gray with the moonlit dew,

      The stones were white as I came through;

      I came down the path by the thirteen yews,

      Through the blocks of shade that the moonlight hews.

      And when I came to the high lych-gate

      I waited awhile where the corpses wait;

      Then I came down the road where the moonlight lay

      Like the fallen ghost of the light of day.

      The bats shrieked high in their zigzag flight,

      The owls’ spread wings were quiet and white,

      The wind and the poplar gave sigh for sigh,

      And all about were the rustling shy

      Little live creatures that love the night—

      Little wild creatures timid and free.

      I passed, and they were not afraid of me.

      It was over the meadow and down the lane

      The way to come to my house again:

      Through the wood where the lovers talk,

      And the ghosts, they say, get leave to walk.

      I wore the clothes that we all must wear,

      And no one saw me walking there,

      No one saw my pale feet pass

      By my garden path to my garden grass.

      My garden was hung with the veil of spring—

      Plum-tree and pear-tree blossoming;

      It lay in the moon’s cold sheet of light

      In garlands and silence, wondrous and white

      As a dead bride decked for her burying.

      Then I saw the face of my house

      Held close in the arms of the blossomed boughs:

      I leaned my face to the window bright

      To feel if the heart of my house beat right.

      The firelight hung it with fitful gold;

      It was warm as the house of the dead is cold.

      I saw the settles, the candles tall,

      The black-faced presses against the wall,

      Polished beechwood and shining brass,

      The gleam of china, the glitter of glass,

      All the little things that were home to me—

      Everything as it used to be.

      Then I said, "The fire of life still burns,

      And I have returned whence none returns:

      I will warm my hands where the fire is lit,

      I will warm my heart in the heart of it!"

      So I called aloud to the one within:

      "Open, open, and let me in!

      Let me in to the fire and the light—

      It is very cold out here in the night!"

      There was never a stir or an answering breath—

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