 | The poetical works of Lucy Larcom |  |
306
MISREAD.
You praised her for her truth one day;
But I, who knew her best, can say
That to herself her words seemed still
To mock the meaning of her will.
An arrow striking somewhat near
Its mark, is speech, when most sincere;
And, as her heart itself, I knew
She did but aim at being true.
But I, who knew her best, can say
That to herself her words seemed still
To mock the meaning of her will.
An arrow striking somewhat near
Its mark, is speech, when most sincere;
And, as her heart itself, I knew
She did but aim at being true.
Less easily could she endure
What once you breathed,—“She is so pure!”
The earthliness of earth is such,
We soil the dearest hands we touch.
Dust clogs and stains the whitest wings,
Sin cleaves even to our holiest things;
None taintless is; yet am I sure
Her inmost prayer was, to be pure.
What once you breathed,—“She is so pure!”
The earthliness of earth is such,
We soil the dearest hands we touch.
Dust clogs and stains the whitest wings,
Sin cleaves even to our holiest things;
None taintless is; yet am I sure
Her inmost prayer was, to be pure.
But when “So good!” you said of her,
What saddening memories did you stir
Of shipwrecked possibilities,
Vessels becalmed on stagnant seas,—
Seeds of all virtues idly sown,
And left untended and unblown!
—Well of herself she understood
How fitfully she strove towards good.
What saddening memories did you stir
Of shipwrecked possibilities,
Vessels becalmed on stagnant seas,—
Seeds of all virtues idly sown,
And left untended and unblown!
—Well of herself she understood
How fitfully she strove towards good.
Ah, pitiful indeed is praise
To one who lives beneath the gaze
Of conscience, feels the All-Seeing Eye
Through utterance, deed, and motive pry!
Painful enough the word of blame
Answered by acquiescent shame!
Who knows himself can nothing boast;
But they who praise us pain us most!
To one who lives beneath the gaze
Of conscience, feels the All-Seeing Eye
Through utterance, deed, and motive pry!
Painful enough the word of blame
Answered by acquiescent shame!
Who knows himself can nothing boast;
But they who praise us pain us most!
| The poetical works of Lucy Larcom | |