 | [Poems by Cary in] The poems of Alice and Phoebe Cary |  |
LOST LIGHT.
So, close the window! gray and blank the sky
Slopes to the nightfall, and the wintry woods
Stand black and desolate; I shall not see
Spring, like a sunrise running o'er the hills,
Nor yet the lark, for love's insanity
Fly at the stars, singing his heart away.
Slopes to the nightfall, and the wintry woods
Stand black and desolate; I shall not see
Spring, like a sunrise running o'er the hills,
Nor yet the lark, for love's insanity
Fly at the stars, singing his heart away.
In other seasons, I was little used
To miss the wild green boughs: thick flaws of rain
Fell round me like the moonlight.
Once, I know,
A mower brought me some red berries home,
And in bright plaits I wore them in my hair,
Playing along the meadow-side all day.
I wish that time were back. A foolish thought!
Its faith and love are fallen to dead dust
Where hope sets slips of roses all in vain;
And as the stormy, dull, and gusty eve
Shuts in the day, my day is closing too;
The playing in the meadows is all done.
To miss the wild green boughs: thick flaws of rain
Fell round me like the moonlight.
Once, I know,
A mower brought me some red berries home,
And in bright plaits I wore them in my hair,
Playing along the meadow-side all day.
I wish that time were back. A foolish thought!
Its faith and love are fallen to dead dust
Where hope sets slips of roses all in vain;
And as the stormy, dull, and gusty eve
Shuts in the day, my day is closing too;
The playing in the meadows is all done.
Mine is the common error, to have given,
For shallow possibilities, the straight
And even chance of every probable good—
From fields of flowers to have but singled out
The bright one that was deadly, and to strive
Through prayer and passion vainly to win back
My blind way into peace, crying to be
Needless of all excuse—to be a child,
Treading cool furrows scented with crushed roots,
To chase the stubble for the humming bird,
And sing out with the homely grasshopper.
For shallow possibilities, the straight
And even chance of every probable good—
From fields of flowers to have but singled out
The bright one that was deadly, and to strive
Through prayer and passion vainly to win back
My blind way into peace, crying to be
Needless of all excuse—to be a child,
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To chase the stubble for the humming bird,
And sing out with the homely grasshopper.
That once sweet music, April's pleasant rain,
Plashing against the roof, grown thick with moss,
Comes to me as though muffled by the clods.
The tall reeds slant together as the winds
Go piping through them, shepherding the lambs
Where tiny fountains lie in hollow grounds,
Rimmed round with uncropt daisies and bright grass
Birds mate and sing together, blossoming twigs
Swing down with golden bees, the anthills swarm,
And the black spider in his loom of limbs
Weaves busily. The sad crow calls alone,
The milk-maid plats her straw, the heifer's low
Runs through the twilight, quick the harmless bat
Flattens his thick damp wings against the pane,
Love makes its lullaby, brown crickets run
Along the hearth-light, proud bright hollyhocks
Grow in the village garden with the corn,
Lilies o'ertop the meadows, rough wild trees
Sprout out with verdure; for the pleasant time,
Glossy with purple plaits, out of their holes
Snakes travel limberly; blood-hungry beasts
Lean their great foreheads close and lovingly;
Moles wallow toward the light; the sentinel cock
Cries all the watches; yet no more the morn,
Upright and white, smiles, gathering out the stars
That redden, crown-like, round her yellow hair,
But, prone, along the earth, from hill to hill,
Slips noiselike, like some earth-burrowing thing,
That only lifts its pale throat in the sun.
Plashing against the roof, grown thick with moss,
Comes to me as though muffled by the clods.
The tall reeds slant together as the winds
Go piping through them, shepherding the lambs
Where tiny fountains lie in hollow grounds,
Rimmed round with uncropt daisies and bright grass
Birds mate and sing together, blossoming twigs
Swing down with golden bees, the anthills swarm,
And the black spider in his loom of limbs
Weaves busily. The sad crow calls alone,
The milk-maid plats her straw, the heifer's low
Runs through the twilight, quick the harmless bat
Flattens his thick damp wings against the pane,
Love makes its lullaby, brown crickets run
Along the hearth-light, proud bright hollyhocks
Grow in the village garden with the corn,
Lilies o'ertop the meadows, rough wild trees
Sprout out with verdure; for the pleasant time,
Glossy with purple plaits, out of their holes
Snakes travel limberly; blood-hungry beasts
Lean their great foreheads close and lovingly;
Moles wallow toward the light; the sentinel cock
Cries all the watches; yet no more the morn,
Upright and white, smiles, gathering out the stars
That redden, crown-like, round her yellow hair,
But, prone, along the earth, from hill to hill,
Slips noiselike, like some earth-burrowing thing,
That only lifts its pale throat in the sun.
Oh, if I dared to say these blushes climb
Up to my cheek from a heart full of sin,
Something might yet be done—my blind eyes be
Couched to some apprehension of delight.
Only the bad go sidling to the truth
Through fate, necessity and evil chance,
Saying, “I trifled with a tempting thing—
Berry or leaf—an ugly-headed worm—
Call it a viper—say I kissed its mouth,
Or once, or twice, or oftener, if you will—
And what of that, if it was but a part
That needs must be in life? Am I to blame?
Shrinking, yet drawn along by baffling power,
Even as the shamble's bloody enginery
Winds close against the windlass the beast's head.”
Up to my cheek from a heart full of sin,
Something might yet be done—my blind eyes be
Couched to some apprehension of delight.
Only the bad go sidling to the truth
Through fate, necessity and evil chance,
Saying, “I trifled with a tempting thing—
Berry or leaf—an ugly-headed worm—
Call it a viper—say I kissed its mouth,
Or once, or twice, or oftener, if you will—
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That needs must be in life? Am I to blame?
Shrinking, yet drawn along by baffling power,
Even as the shamble's bloody enginery
Winds close against the windlass the beast's head.”
Ay, who can be absolved by conscience so,
Or bring the lost light back into the world!
Or bring the lost light back into the world!
| [Poems by Cary in] The poems of Alice and Phoebe Cary | |