 | [Poems by Cary in] The poems of Alice and Phoebe Cary |  |
I.
A year has gone down silently
To the dark quiet of the Past
Since I beneath this very tree
Sat hoping, fearing, dreaming, last;
Its waning glories, like a flame,
Are trembling to the wind's light touch—
All just a year ago the same,
And I—oh! I—am changed so much!
To the dark quiet of the Past
Since I beneath this very tree
Sat hoping, fearing, dreaming, last;
Its waning glories, like a flame,
Are trembling to the wind's light touch—
All just a year ago the same,
And I—oh! I—am changed so much!
The beauty of a wildering dream
Hung softly round declining day;
A star of all too sweet a beam
In Eve's flushed bosom trembling lay;
Changed in its aspect, yet the same,
Still climbs that star from sunset's glow,
But its embrace of beauteous flame
No longer clasps the world from woe.
Hung softly round declining day;
A star of all too sweet a beam
In Eve's flushed bosom trembling lay;
Changed in its aspect, yet the same,
Still climbs that star from sunset's glow,
But its embrace of beauteous flame
No longer clasps the world from woe.
Another year shall I return,
And cross the solemn chapel floor,
While round me memory's shrine-lamps burn—
Or shall this pilgrimage be o'er?
One that I loved, grown faint with strife,
When dropped and died the tenderer bloom,
Folded the white tent of young life
For the pale army of the tomb.
And cross the solemn chapel floor,
While round me memory's shrine-lamps burn—
Or shall this pilgrimage be o'er?
One that I loved, grown faint with strife,
When dropped and died the tenderer bloom,
Folded the white tent of young life
For the pale army of the tomb.
The dry seeds dropping from their pods,
The hawthorn apples bright as dawn,
And the gray mullen's starless rods,
Were just as now a year agone;
But changed is everything to me,
From the small flower to sunset's glow
Since last I sat beneath this tree,
A year—a little year—ago.
The hawthorn apples bright as dawn,
And the gray mullen's starless rods,
Were just as now a year agone;
But changed is everything to me,
From the small flower to sunset's glow
Since last I sat beneath this tree,
A year—a little year—ago.
137
I leaned against this broken bough,
This faded turf my footstep pressed;
But glad hopes that are not there now,
Lay softly trembling in my breast—
Trembling, for through the golden haze
Rose, as the dead leaves drifted by,
As from the Vala of old days,
The mournful voice of prophecy.
This faded turf my footstep pressed;
But glad hopes that are not there now,
Lay softly trembling in my breast—
Trembling, for through the golden haze
Rose, as the dead leaves drifted by,
As from the Vala of old days,
The mournful voice of prophecy.
Give woman's heart one triumph hour,
Even on the borders of the grave,
And thou hast given her strength and power
The saddest ills of life to brave;
Crush that far hope down, thou dost bring
To the poor bird the tempest's wrath,
Without the petrel's stormy wing
To beat the darkness from its path.
Even on the borders of the grave,
And thou hast given her strength and power
The saddest ills of life to brave;
Crush that far hope down, thou dost bring
To the poor bird the tempest's wrath,
Without the petrel's stormy wing
To beat the darkness from its path.
Once knowing mortal hope and fear,
Whate'er in heaven's sweet clime thou art,
Bend, pitying mother, softly near,
And save, O save me from my heart!
Be still, oh mournful memory,
My knee is trembling on the sod—
The heir of immortality,
A child of the eternal God.
Whate'er in heaven's sweet clime thou art,
Bend, pitying mother, softly near,
And save, O save me from my heart!
Be still, oh mournful memory,
My knee is trembling on the sod—
The heir of immortality,
A child of the eternal God.
| [Poems by Cary in] The poems of Alice and Phoebe Cary | |