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Poem by Edith Nesbit
WHEN I was young how fair the skies, Such folly of cloud, such blue depths wise, Such dews of morn, such calms of eve, So many the lure and the reprieve-- Life seemed a toy to break and mend And make a charm of in the end. Then slowly all the dew dried up And only dust lay in the cup; And since, to slake his thirst, man must, I sought a cup that had no dust, And found it at the Goat and Vine-- Mingled of brandy, beer and wine. The goat-cup, straight, drew down the skies And lit them in lunatick wise: What had been rose went scarlet red, And the pearl tints grew like the dead. And the fresh primrose of the morn Was the wet red of rain-spoiled corn. Now, with a head that aches and nods I hold weak hands out to the gods; And oh! forgiving gods and kind, They give me healing to my mind, And show me once again the lawn Green and clear-gemmed with dews of dawn. O gods, who look down from above Upon our tangle of lust and love, And, in your purity, perceive The worth of what our follies leave: Give us but this, and sink the rest-- To know that dew and dawn are best.
Edith Nesbit's other poems:
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