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 | [Poems by Cary in] The Poetical Works Of Alice and Phoebe Cary |  |
WOOING.
Now in the waning autumn days
The dull red sun, with lurid blaze,
Shines through the soft and smoky haze.
The dull red sun, with lurid blaze,
Shines through the soft and smoky haze.
Fallen across the garden bed,
Many a flower that reared its head
Proudly in summer, lies stiff and dead.
Many a flower that reared its head
Proudly in summer, lies stiff and dead.
The pinks and roses have ceased to blow,
The foxgloves stand in a long black row,
And the daffodils perished long ago.
The foxgloves stand in a long black row,
And the daffodils perished long ago.
Now the poplar rears his yellow spire,
The maple lights his funeral pyre,
And the dog-wood burns like a bush of fire.
The maple lights his funeral pyre,
And the dog-wood burns like a bush of fire.
The harvest fields are bare again,
The barns are filled to the full with grain
And the orchard trees of their load complain.
The barns are filled to the full with grain
And the orchard trees of their load complain.
289
Huge sacks of corn o'er the floor are strewn,
And Dovecote Mill grinds on and on,
And the miller's work seems never done.
And Dovecote Mill grinds on and on,
And the miller's work seems never done.
But now 't is the Sabbath eve, and still
For a little while is the noisy mill,
And Robert is free to go where he will.
For a little while is the noisy mill,
And Robert is free to go where he will.
But think or do whatever he may,
The face of Bethy he sees alway
Just as she looked in the choir to-day.
The face of Bethy he sees alway
Just as she looked in the choir to-day.
And as his thoughts the picture paint,
The hope within his heart grows faint,
As it might before a passionless saint.
The hope within his heart grows faint,
As it might before a passionless saint.
Looking away from the book on her knees,
Pretty Bethy at sunset sees,
Some one under the sycamore trees,
Pretty Bethy at sunset sees,
Some one under the sycamore trees,
Walking and musing slow, apart;—
But why should the blood with sudden start,
Leap to her cheek from her foolish heart?
But why should the blood with sudden start,
Leap to her cheek from her foolish heart?
Oh, if he came now, and if he spake,
What answer should she, could she make?
This was the way her thought would take.
What answer should she, could she make?
This was the way her thought would take.
Now, troubled maid on the cottage sill,
Be wise, and keep your pulses still,
He has turned, he is coming up the hill!
Be wise, and keep your pulses still,
He has turned, he is coming up the hill!
How he spake, or she made reply,
How she came on his breast to lie,
She could not tell you, better than I.
How she came on his breast to lie,
She could not tell you, better than I.
But when the stars came out in the skies
He has told his love, in whispered sighs,
And she has answered, with downcast eyes.
He has told his love, in whispered sighs,
And she has answered, with downcast eyes.
For somehow, since the world went round,
For men who are simple, or men profound,
Hath a time and a way to woo been found.
For men who are simple, or men profound,
Hath a time and a way to woo been found.
And maids, for a thousand, thousand years,
With trusting hopes, or trembling fears
Have answered blushing through smiles and tears.
With trusting hopes, or trembling fears
Have answered blushing through smiles and tears.
And why should these two lovers have more
Of thoughtless folly or wisdom's lore
Than all the world who have lived before?
Of thoughtless folly or wisdom's lore
Than all the world who have lived before?
Nay, she gives her hand to him who won
Her heart, and she says, when this is done,
There is no other under the sun
Her heart, and she says, when this is done,
There is no other under the sun
Could be to her what he hath been;
For he to her girlish fancy then
Was the only man in the world of men.
For he to her girlish fancy then
Was the only man in the world of men.
She is ready to take his hand and name,
For better or worse, for honor or blame;—
God grant it may alway be the same.
For better or worse, for honor or blame;—
God grant it may alway be the same.
| [Poems by Cary in] The Poetical Works Of Alice and Phoebe Cary | |