 | [Poems by Cary in] The Poetical Works Of Alice and Phoebe Cary |  |
KATRINA ON THE PORCH.
A BIT OF TURNER PUT INTO WORDS.
An old, old house by the side of the sea,
And never a picture poet would paint;
But I hold the woman above the saint,
And the light of the hearth is more to me
Than shimmer of air-built castle.
And never a picture poet would paint;
But I hold the woman above the saint,
And the light of the hearth is more to me
Than shimmer of air-built castle.
It fits as it grew to the landscape there—
One hardly feels as he stands aloof
Where the sandstone ends, and the red slate roof
Juts over the window, low and square,
That looks on the wild sea-water.
One hardly feels as he stands aloof
Where the sandstone ends, and the red slate roof
Juts over the window, low and square,
That looks on the wild sea-water.
From the top of the hill so green and high
There slopeth a level of golden moss,
That bars of scarlet and amber cross,
And rolling out to the farther sky
Is the world of wild sea-water.
There slopeth a level of golden moss,
That bars of scarlet and amber cross,
And rolling out to the farther sky
Is the world of wild sea-water.
Some starved grape-vineyards round about—
A zigzag road cut deep with ruts—
A little cluster of fisher's huts,
And the black sand scalloping in and out
'Twixt th' land and th' wild sea-water.
A zigzag road cut deep with ruts—
A little cluster of fisher's huts,
And the black sand scalloping in and out
'Twixt th' land and th' wild sea-water.
208
Gray fragments of some border towers,
Flat, pellmell on a circling mound,
With a furrow deeply worn all round
By the feet of children through the flowers,
And all by the wild sea-water.
Flat, pellmell on a circling mound,
With a furrow deeply worn all round
By the feet of children through the flowers,
And all by the wild sea-water.
And there, from the silvery break o' th' day
Till the evening purple drops to the land,
She sits with her cheek like a rose in her hand,
And her sad and wistful eyes one way—
The way of the wild sea-water.
Till the evening purple drops to the land,
She sits with her cheek like a rose in her hand,
And her sad and wistful eyes one way—
The way of the wild sea-water.
And there, from night till the yellowing morn
Falls over the huts and th' scallops of sand—
A tangle of curls like a torch in her hand—
She sits and maketh her moan so lorn,
With the moan of the wild sea-water.
Falls over the huts and th' scallops of sand—
A tangle of curls like a torch in her hand—
She sits and maketh her moan so lorn,
With the moan of the wild sea-water.
Only a study for homely eyes,
And never a picture poet would paint;
But I hold the woman above the saint,
And the light of the humblest hearth I prize
O'er the luminous air-built castle.
And never a picture poet would paint;
But I hold the woman above the saint,
And the light of the humblest hearth I prize
O'er the luminous air-built castle.
| [Poems by Cary in] The Poetical Works Of Alice and Phoebe Cary | |