 | [Poems by Cary in] The Poetical Works Of Alice and Phoebe Cary |  |
PUTTING OFF THE ARMOR.
Why weep ye for the falling
Of the transient twilight gloom?
I am weary of the journey,
And have come in sight of home.
Of the transient twilight gloom?
I am weary of the journey,
And have come in sight of home.
I can see a white procession
Sweep melodiously along,
And I would not have your mourning
Drown the sweetness of their song.
Sweep melodiously along,
And I would not have your mourning
Drown the sweetness of their song.
The battle-strife is ended;
I have scaled the hindering wall,
And am putting off the armor
Of the soldier—that is all!
I have scaled the hindering wall,
And am putting off the armor
Of the soldier—that is all!
Would you hide me from my pleasures?
Would you hold me from my rest?
From my serving and my waiting
I am called to be a guest!
Would you hold me from my rest?
From my serving and my waiting
I am called to be a guest!
Of its heavy, hurtful burdens
Now my spirit is released:
I am done with fasts and scourges,
And am bidden to the feast.
Now my spirit is released:
I am done with fasts and scourges,
And am bidden to the feast.
While you see the sun descending,
While you lose me in the night,
Lo, the heavenly morn is breaking,
And my soul is in the light.
While you lose me in the night,
Lo, the heavenly morn is breaking,
And my soul is in the light.
I from faith to sight am rising
While in deeps of doubt you sink;
'T is the glory that divides us,
Not the darkness, as you think.
While in deeps of doubt you sink;
'T is the glory that divides us,
Not the darkness, as you think.
Then lift up your drooping eyelids,
And take heart of better cheer;
'T is the cloud of coming spirits
Makes the shadows that ye fear.
And take heart of better cheer;
'T is the cloud of coming spirits
Makes the shadows that ye fear.
241
Oh, they come to bear me upward
To the mansion of the sky,
And to change as I am changing
Is to live, and not to die;
To the mansion of the sky,
And to change as I am changing
Is to live, and not to die;
Is to leave the pain, the sickness,
And the smiting of the rod,
And to dwell among the angels,
In the City of our God.
And the smiting of the rod,
And to dwell among the angels,
In the City of our God.
| [Poems by Cary in] The Poetical Works Of Alice and Phoebe Cary | |