 | [Poems by Cary in] The poems of Alice and Phoebe Cary |  |
THE CHILDREN.
Come, sit down, little children,
Beneath these green old trees,
There 's such a world of sweetness
In the kisses of the breeze:
Now push away the tresses
From your young and healthful brows,
And listen to the music
Up above us in the boughs.
Beneath these green old trees,
There 's such a world of sweetness
In the kisses of the breeze:
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From your young and healthful brows,
And listen to the music
Up above us in the boughs.
How pleasant is the stirring
Where the leaves are thick and bright;
And the wings of birds are floating,
Like the golden summer light.
The fragrance of the brier-rose
Is sweet upon the air;
And the pinks and dark-leaved violets
Are scattered everywhere.
Where the leaves are thick and bright;
And the wings of birds are floating,
Like the golden summer light.
The fragrance of the brier-rose
Is sweet upon the air;
And the pinks and dark-leaved violets
Are scattered everywhere.
The lilies hang their silver cups
Close to the water's edge,
And the pebbles are veined deeply
As the berries in the hedge.
But where you winding pathway
Along the hill is trod,
'T is the mourner's heavy footstep
That has worn away the sod.
Close to the water's edge,
And the pebbles are veined deeply
As the berries in the hedge.
But where you winding pathway
Along the hill is trod,
'T is the mourner's heavy footstep
That has worn away the sod.
The smooth white stones, like spectres,
Are standing in the shade,
To mark the narrow chambers
Where the old and young are laid.
There hides the deadly night-shade
Where the tall and bent grass waves;
And willow's tresses, long and sad,
Are trailed above the graves.
Are standing in the shade,
To mark the narrow chambers
Where the old and young are laid.
There hides the deadly night-shade
Where the tall and bent grass waves;
And willow's tresses, long and sad,
Are trailed above the graves.
Not with the gentle falling
Of the early summer rain;
Not with the pleasant rushing
Of the sickle in the grain;
Nor when the crimson mantle
Of the morn is o'er them spread,
Shall the pale hands be unfolded
From the bosoms of the dead.
Of the early summer rain;
Not with the pleasant rushing
Of the sickle in the grain;
Nor when the crimson mantle
Of the morn is o'er them spread,
Shall the pale hands be unfolded
From the bosoms of the dead.
But there 's a morn appproaching
When the sleepers shall arise,
And go up and be with angels
In the ever-cloudless skies.
Oh, earth is very beautiful
With sunshine and with flowers;
But there 's a world, my little friends,
Of purer yhearts than ours.
When the sleepers shall arise,
And go up and be with angels
In the ever-cloudless skies.
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With sunshine and with flowers;
But there 's a world, my little friends,
Of purer yhearts than ours.
| [Poems by Cary in] The poems of Alice and Phoebe Cary | |