Many Voices: Poems

Part 1

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.

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LONDON: HUTCHINSON & CO. :: PATERNOSTER ROW ::

To my dear Daughter in law and Daughter in love, GERTRUDE BLAND I, E. Nesbit, dedicate this book

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Jesson St. Mary’s, Romney, 1922.

CONTENTS

PAGE THE RETURN 9 FOR DOLLY 12 QUESTIONS 13 THE DAISIES 14 THE TOUCHSTONE 16 THE DECEMBER ROSE 17 THE FIRE 18 SONG 21 A PARTING 22 THE GIFT OF LIFE 23 INCOMPATIBILITIES 24 THE STOLEN GOD 25 WINTER 28 SEA-SHELLS 29 HOPE 30 THE PRODIGAL’S RETURN 31 THE SKYLARK 32 SATURDAY SONG 33 THE CHAMPION 35 THE GARDEN REFUSED 37 THESE LITTLE ONES 38 THE DESPOT 39 THE MAGIC RING 40 PHILOSOPHY 41 THE WHIRLIGIG OF TIME 42 MAGIC 43 WINDFLOWERS 44 AS IT IS 45 BEFORE WINTER 46 THE VAULT 47 SURRENDER 49 VALUES 50 IN THE PEOPLE’S PARK 51 WEDDING DAY 52 THE LAST DEFEAT 53 MAY DAY 54 GRETNA GREEN 55 THE ETERNAL 57 THE POINT OF VIEW: I 58 THE POINT OF VIEW: II 59 MARY OF MAGDALA 60 THE HOME-COMING 62 AGE TO YOUTH 63 IN AGE 64 WHITE MAGIC 65 FROM THE PORTUGUESE. I. 66 FROM THE PORTUGUESE. II. 68 THE NEST 70 THE OLD MAGIC 71 FAITH 72 THE DEATH OF AGNES 73 IN TROUBLE 74 GRATITUDE 76 AT THE LAST 77 FEAR 78 THE DAY OF JUDGMENT 79 A FAREWELL 80 IN HOSPITAL 81 PRAYER IN TIME OF WAR 82 AT PARTING 83 INVOCATION 84 TO HER: IN TIME OF WAR 85 THE FIELDS OF FLANDERS 86 SPRING IN WAR-TIME 87 THE MOTHER’S PRAYER 88 “INASMUCH AS YE DID IT NOT” 91

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— Only a silence as deep as death.

Then I beat on the window, and called, and cried. No one heard me, and none replied. The golden silence lay warm and deep, And I wept as the dead, forgotten, weep; And there was no one to hear or see— To comfort me, to have pity on me.

But deep in the silence something stirred— Something that had not seen or heard— And two drew near to the window-pane, Kissed in the moonlight and kissed again, And looked, through my face, to the moon-shroud, spread Over the garlanded garden bed; And—“How ghostly the moonlight is!” she said.

Back through the garden, the wood, the lane, I came to mine own place again. I wore the garments we all must wear, And no one saw me walking there. No one heard my thin feet pass Through the white of the stones and the gray of the grass, Along the path where the moonlight hews Slabs of shadow for thirteen yews.

In the hollow where drifted dreams lie deep It is good to sleep: it was good to sleep: But my bed has grown cold with the drip of the dew, And I cannot sleep as I used to do.

FOR DOLLY WHO DOES NOT LEARN HER LESSONS

YOU see the fairies dancing in the fountain, Laughing, leaping, sparkling with the spray; You see the gnomes, at work beneath the mountain, Make gold and silver and diamonds every day; You see the angels, sliding down the moonbeams, Bring white dreams like sheaves of lilies fair; You see the imps, scarce seen against the moonbeams, Rise from the bonfire’s blue and liquid air.

All the enchantment, all the magic there is Hid in trees and blossoms, to you is plain and true. Dewdrops in lupin leaves are jewels for the fairies; Every flower that blows is a miracle for you. Air, earth, water, fire, spread their splendid wares for you. Millions of magics beseech your little looks; Every soul your winged soul meets, loves you and cares for you. Ah! why must we clip those wings and dim those eyes with books?

Soon, soon enough the magic lights grow dimmer, Marsh mists arise to cloud the radiant sky, Dust of hard highways will veil the starry glimmer, Tired hands will lay the folded magic by. Storm winds will blow through those enchanted closes, Fairies be crushed where weed and briar grow strong . . . Leave her her crown of magic stars and roses, Leave her her kingdom—she will not keep it long!

QUESTIONS

WHAT do the roses do, mother, Now that the summer’s done? They lie in the bed that is hung with red And dream about the sun.

Part 2

What do the lilies do, mother, Now that there’s no more June? Each one lies down in her white nightgown And dreams about the moon.

What can I dream of, mother, With the moon and the sun away? Of a rose unborn, of an untried thorn, And a lily that lives a day!

THE DAISIES

IN the great green park with the wooden palings— The wooden palings so hard to climb, There are fern and foxglove, primrose and violet, And green things growing all the time; And out in the open the daisies grow, Pretty and proud in their proper places, Millions of white-frilled daisy faces, Millions and millions—not one or two. And they call to the bluebells down in the wood: “Are you out—are you in? We have been so good All the school-time winter through, But now it’s playtime, The gay time, the May time; We are out and at play. Where are you?”

In the gritty garden inside the railings, The spiky railings all painted green, There are neat little beds of geraniums and fuchsia With never a happy weed between. There’s a neat little grass plot, bald in places, And very dusty to touch; A respectable man comes once a week To keep the garden weeded and swept, To keep it as we don’t want it kept. He cuts the grass with his mowing-machine, And we think he cuts it too much. But even on the lawn, all dry and gritty, The daisies play about. They are so brave as well as so pretty, You cannot keep them out. I love them, I want to let them grow, But that respectable man says no. He cuts off their heads with his mowing-machine Like the French Revolution guillotine. He sweeps up the poor little pretty faces, The dear little white-frilled daisy faces; Says things must be kept in their proper places He has no frill round his ugly face— I wish I could find his proper place!

THE TOUCHSTONE

THERE was a garden, very strange and fair With all the roses summer never brings. The snowy blossom of immortal Springs Lighted its boughs, and I, even I, was there. There were new heavens, and the earth was new, And still I told my heart the dream was true.

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