The Kiss
The snow is white on wood and wold,
The wind is in the firs,
So dead my heart is with the cold,
No pulse within it stirs,
Even to see your face, my dear,
Your face that was my sun;
There is no spring this bitter year,
And summer's dreams are done.
The snakes that lie about my heart
Are in their wintry sleep;
Their fangs no more deal sting and smart,
No more they curl and creep.
Love with the summer ceased to be;
The frost is firm and fast.
God keep the summer far from me,
And let the snakes' sleep last!
Touch of your hand could not suffice
To waken them once more;
Nor could the sunshine of your eyes
A ruined spring restore.
But ah-your lips! You know the rest:
The snows are summer rain,
My eyes are wet, and in my breast
The snakes' fangs meet again.
Edith Nesbit
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I always thought that Edith Nesbit wrote just children's books, but here's what I came across today.
I read several other of her poems and they were also good and really heart-wrenching... passing to somewhat melancholy mood that wrapped me this afternoon coming in a sudden wave.
I'll be fishing out several books of poetry today as soon as I come home, that's for sure! Or probably Anne Shirley will make the world bright and sparkling and sunny again?
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