Author: Edith Nesbit

The snow is white on wood and wold, The wind is in the firs, So dead my heart is with […]

Does the wind sing in your ears at night, in the town, Rattling the windows and doors of the cheap-built […]

Among his books he sits all day To think and read and write; He does not smell the new-mown hay, […]

1 The garden mould was damp and chill, 2 Winter had had his brutal will 3 Since over all the […]

My window, framed in pear-tree bloom, White-curtained shone, and softly lighted: So, by the pear-tree, to my room Your ghost […]

The South is a dream of flowers With a jewel for sky and sea, Rose-crowns for the dancing hours, Gold […]