 | [Poems by Cary in] The Poetical Works Of Alice and Phoebe Cary |  |
A WINTRY WASTE.
The boughs they blow across the pane,
And my heart is stirred with sudden joy,
For I think 't is the shadow of my boy,
My long lost boy, come home again
To love, and to live with me;
And I put the work from off my knee,
And open the door with eager haste—
There lieth the cold, wild winter waste,
And that is all I see!
And my heart is stirred with sudden joy,
For I think 't is the shadow of my boy,
My long lost boy, come home again
To love, and to live with me;
And I put the work from off my knee,
And open the door with eager haste—
There lieth the cold, wild winter waste,
And that is all I see!
The boughs they drag against the eaves.
I hear them early, I hear them late,
And I think 't is the latch of the dooryard gate.
Or a step on the frozen leaves.
And I say to my heart, he is slow, he is slow.
And I call him loud and I call him low,
And listen, and listen, again and again,
And I see the wild shadows go over the pane.
And the dead leaves, as they fall,
I hear, and that is all.
I hear them early, I hear them late,
And I think 't is the latch of the dooryard gate.
Or a step on the frozen leaves.
And I say to my heart, he is slow, he is slow.
And I call him loud and I call him low,
And listen, and listen, again and again,
And I see the wild shadows go over the pane.
And the dead leaves, as they fall,
I hear, and that is all.
But fancy only half deceives—
My joys are counterfeits of joy,
For I know he never will come, my boy;
And I see through my make-believes,
Only the wintry waste of snow,
Where he lieth so cold, and lieth so low,
And so far from the light and me:
And boughs go over the window-pane,
And drag on the lonely eaves, in vain,—
That waste is all I see.
My joys are counterfeits of joy,
For I know he never will come, my boy;
And I see through my make-believes,
Only the wintry waste of snow,
Where he lieth so cold, and lieth so low,
And so far from the light and me:
And boughs go over the window-pane,
And drag on the lonely eaves, in vain,—
That waste is all I see.
| [Poems by Cary in] The Poetical Works Of Alice and Phoebe Cary | |