 | The poetical works of Lucy Larcom |  |
ON THE STAIRWAY.
The little children on the stairway,
Cased in a slippery glare of sleet,
By post and railing vainly clamber;
Slight hold is there for baby-feet.
High in the cold air swings the school-bell:
“Come up! come up!” its clang commands:
A quick thought flies from lips to fingers,—
“'T is easier, taking hold of hands.”
Cased in a slippery glare of sleet,
By post and railing vainly clamber;
Slight hold is there for baby-feet.
High in the cold air swings the school-bell:
“Come up! come up!” its clang commands:
A quick thought flies from lips to fingers,—
“'T is easier, taking hold of hands.”
Now laughter lights their rosy faces;
Strong arms the faltering strugglers lift;
Now all at last have won the threshold,
And out of sight within they drift,
Flinging back bloom upon the snow-wreaths;
The blank, white world reflects their smile;
Their word has cleared for us a pathway,
Though Alps of ice the highroad pile.
Strong arms the faltering strugglers lift;
Now all at last have won the threshold,
And out of sight within they drift,
Flinging back bloom upon the snow-wreaths;
The blank, white world reflects their smile;
Their word has cleared for us a pathway,
Though Alps of ice the highroad pile.
171
We all are children on a stairway,
Weary of vain attempts to climb,
Or, strong ourselves, forgetting others;
While silver peals of duty chime
High in the beckoning heaven above us;
And, welcome we or dread the call,
Upon the steps we may not linger;
Ascend we must, slide back, or fall.
Weary of vain attempts to climb,
Or, strong ourselves, forgetting others;
While silver peals of duty chime
High in the beckoning heaven above us;
And, welcome we or dread the call,
Upon the steps we may not linger;
Ascend we must, slide back, or fall.
Whose is the fault if this one stumbles,
If that laments a hopeless bruise,
Or if another sits despairing?
Yours, mine, who timely aid refuse.
Small honor to go up unhindered,
While a tired brother by us stands:
The little children, they shall teach us;
“'T is easier, taking hold of hands.”
If that laments a hopeless bruise,
Or if another sits despairing?
Yours, mine, who timely aid refuse.
Small honor to go up unhindered,
While a tired brother by us stands:
The little children, they shall teach us;
“'T is easier, taking hold of hands.”
Still up and down on Virtue's ladder
Unnumbered beings come and go,
With faces turned to nether darkness,
Or sunned with a celestial glow.
The truants out of Duty's heaven,
The white and dazzling seraph-bands,
Are brethren still; and, struggling upward,
“'T is easier, taking hold of hands.”
Unnumbered beings come and go,
With faces turned to nether darkness,
Or sunned with a celestial glow.
The truants out of Duty's heaven,
The white and dazzling seraph-bands,
Are brethren still; and, struggling upward,
“'T is easier, taking hold of hands.”
| The poetical works of Lucy Larcom | |