Edith Nesbit - Lays and Legends (Second Series)

She never saw the flowers
That were hers from their first sweet hours.
The roses, the pinks, and the dark heartsease
Died in my garden, ungathered, forlorn.
Only the jasmine, the lilies, the white, white rose,
They were gathered – to honour and sorrow born.
They lay round her, touched her close.
The jasmine stars – white stars, that about our window
their faint light shed,
Lay round her head.
And the white, white roses lay on her breast,
And a long, white lily lay in her hand.

They lie by her – rest with her rest;
But I, unhonoured, unblest —
I stand outside,
In the ruined garden solitude —
Where she never stood —
On the trim green sod
Which she never trod;
And the red, red roses grow and blow, —
As if any one cared
How they fared!
And the gate of Eden is shut; and I stand
And see the Angel with flaming sword —
Life's pitiless Lord —
And I know I never may pass.
Alas! alas!
O Rose! my rose!
I never may reach the place where she grows,
A rose in the garden of God.

O God, let there be rain!
Rain, till this sky of gray
That covers us every day
Be utterly wept away,
Let there be rain, we pray,
Till the sky be washed blue again
Let there be rain!

O God, let there be rain,
For the sky hangs heavy with pain,
And we, who walk upon earth,
We find our days not of worth;
None blesses the day of our birth,
We question of death's day in vain, —
Let there be rain!

O God, let there be rain
Till the full-fed earth complain.
Yea, though it sweep away
The seeds sown yesterday
And beat down the blossoms of May
And ruin the border gay:
In storm let this gray noon wane,
Let there be rain!

O God, let there be rain
Till the rivers rise a-main!
Though the waters go over us quite
And cover us up from the light
And whelm us away in the night
And the flowers of our life be slain,
O God, let there be rain!

O God, let there be rain,
Out of the gray sky, rain!
To wash the earth and to wash the sky
And the sick, sad souls of the folk who sigh
In the gray of a sordid satiety.
Open Thy flood-gates, O God most High,
And some day send us the sun again.
O God, let there be rain!

Squalid street after squalid street,
Endless rows of them, each the same,
Black dust under your weary feet,
Dust upon every face you meet,
Dust in their hearts, too, – or so it seems —
Dust in the place of dreams.

Spring in her beauty thrills and thrives,
Here men hardly have heard her name.
Work is the end and aim of their lives —
Work, work, work! for their children and wives;
Work for a life which, when it is won,
Is the saddest thing 'neath the sun!

Work – one dark and incessant round
In black dull workshops, out of the light;
Work that others' ease may abound,
Work that delight for them may be found,
Work without hope, without pause, without peace,
That only in death can cease.

Brothers, who live glad lives in the sun,
What of these men, at work in the night?
God will ask you what you have done;
Their lives be required of you – every one —
Ye, who were glad and who liked life well,
While they did your work – in hell!

In all my work, in all the children's play,
I hear the ceaseless hum of London near;
It cries to me, I cannot choose but hear
Its never-ending wail, by night and day.
So many millions – is it vain to pray
That all may win such peace as I have here,
With books, and work, and little children dear? —
That flowers like mine may grow along their way?

Through all my happy life I hear the cry,
The exceeding bitter cry of human pain,
And shudder as the deathless wail sweeps by.
I can do nothing – even hope is vain
That the bright light of peace and purity
In those lost souls may ever shine again!

'Mid pine woods' whisper and the hum of bees
I heard a voice that was not bee nor wood:
Here, in the city, Gold has trampled Good.
Come thou, do battle till this strife shall cease!"
I left the mill, the meadows and the trees,
And came to do the little best I could
For these, God's poor; and, oh, my God, I would
I had a thousand lives to give for these!

What can one hand do 'gainst a world of wrong?
Yet, when the voice said, "Come!" how could I stay?
The foe is mighty, and the battle long
(And love is sweet, and there are flowers in May),
And Good seems weak, and Gold is very strong;
But, while these fight, I dare not turn away.

Throb, throb, throb, weariness, ache, and pain!
One's heart and one's eyes on fire,
And never a spark in one's brain.
The stupid paper and ink,
That might be turned into gold,
Lie here unused
Since one's brain refused
To do its tricks – as of old.
One can suffer still, indeed,
But one cannot think any more.
There's no fire in the grate,
No food on the plate,
And the East-wind shrieks through the door.
The sunshine grins in the street:
It used to cheer me like wine,
Now it only quickens my brain's sick beat;
And the children are crying for bread to eat
And I cannot write a line!

Molly, my pet – don't cry,
Father can't write if you do —
And anyhow, if you only knew,
It's hard enough as it is.
There, give old daddy a kiss,
And cuddle down on the floor;
We'll have some dinner by-and-by.
Now, fool, try! Try once more!
Hold your head tight in your hands,
Bring your will to bear!
The children are starving – your little ones —
While you sit fooling there.
Beth, with her golden hair;
Moll, with her rough, brown head —
Here they are – see!
Against your knee,
Waiting there to be fed! —
I cannot bear their eyes.
Their soft little kisses burn —
They will cry again
In vain, in vain,
For the food that I cannot earn.

If I could only write
Just a dozen pages or so
On "The Prospects of Trade,"
or "The Irish Question,"
or "Why are Wages so Low?" —
The printers are waiting for copy now,
I've had my next week's screw,
There'll be nothing more till I've written something,
Oh, God! what am I to do?
If I could only write!
The paper glares up white
Like the cursed white of the heavy stone
Under which she lies alone;
And the ink is black like death,
And the room and the window are black.
Molly, Molly – the sun's gone out,
Cannot you fetch it back?
Did I frighten my little ones?
Never mind, daddy dropped asleep —
Cuddle down closely, creep
Close to his knee
And daddy will see
If he can't do his writing. Vain!
I shall never write again!
Oh, God! was it like a love divine
To make their lives hang on my pen
When I cannot write a line?

Sleep, sleep, my little baby dear,
Thee shall no want or pain come near;
Sleep softly on thy downy nest,
Or on this lace-veiled mother-breast.