 | Early and late poems of Alice and Phoebe Cary |  |
COMING AND GOING.
Hoarding and heaping—hoarding and heaping—
And now there are lights, and garlands gay,
For a babe is born in the house to-day,
And his two blue eyes are sleeping;
And close by the cradle the father stands,
And thinks of his acres of well-sown lands,
And of when the two little dimpled hands
Will be strong enough for reaping.
And now there are lights, and garlands gay,
For a babe is born in the house to-day,
And his two blue eyes are sleeping;
And close by the cradle the father stands,
And thinks of his acres of well-sown lands,
And of when the two little dimpled hands
Will be strong enough for reaping.
Budding and blooming—budding and blooming—
And the winds are playing like flutes on the hills,
And the stones are beaten like drums in the rills,
And the birds in clouds are coming;
And song and fragrance float in the breeze,
And all the blossoms of all the trees
Are edged with fringes of golden bees
Sucking and humming—sucking and humming.
And the winds are playing like flutes on the hills,
And the stones are beaten like drums in the rills,
And the birds in clouds are coming;
And song and fragrance float in the breeze,
And all the blossoms of all the trees
Are edged with fringes of golden bees
Sucking and humming—sucking and humming.
Wailing and weeping—wailing and weeping—
And now the lights in the house are low,
And now the roses have ceased to glow,
And the women watch are keeping;
And close by the coffin the father stands,
And, bitterly moaning, wrings his hands,
And barren of pleasure are all his lands,
For the babe wakes not from sleeping.
And now the lights in the house are low,
And now the roses have ceased to glow,
And the women watch are keeping;
And close by the coffin the father stands,
And, bitterly moaning, wrings his hands,
And barren of pleasure are all his lands,
For the babe wakes not from sleeping.
130
Blighting and blowing—blighting and blowing—
And the stones of the rivulet silent lie,
And the winds in the fading woodlands cry,
And the birds in clouds are going;
And the dandelion hides his gold,
And their blue little tents the violets fold,
And the air is gray with snowing:
So life keeps coming and going.
And the stones of the rivulet silent lie,
And the winds in the fading woodlands cry,
And the birds in clouds are going;
And the dandelion hides his gold,
And their blue little tents the violets fold,
And the air is gray with snowing:
So life keeps coming and going.
| Early and late poems of Alice and Phoebe Cary | |