 | Early and late poems of Alice and Phoebe Cary |  |
THE GRANDMOTHER.
She says she has left the world behind,
But the world is not forgot,
And says she keeps as strong in her mind
As she ever was, God wot.
Only the things about her change
Too fast for her to see,
And all is wide, and vast, and strange—
Ah! foolishly awry, and strange,
And not as it used to be!
But the world is not forgot,
And says she keeps as strong in her mind
As she ever was, God wot.
Only the things about her change
Too fast for her to see,
And all is wide, and vast, and strange—
Ah! foolishly awry, and strange,
And not as it used to be!
She says the boys are kept from school
To mind her, without call;
'T is pity if she cannot rule
Herself, who has ruled them all!
She will not have them stand and wait,
She can climb the stile alone,
Only the path is not so straight,
So smooth and pleasureful and straight,
As it was in the years agone!
To mind her, without call;
'T is pity if she cannot rule
Herself, who has ruled them all!
She will not have them stand and wait,
She can climb the stile alone,
Only the path is not so straight,
So smooth and pleasureful and straight,
As it was in the years agone!
She says her old eyes keep their sight,
And, up the farm and down,
She knows when the buckwheat-field is white,
And the barley-field is brown.
She takes her little trembling share,
When the harvest song is sung,
Only the ears are not so fair—
Ah! not so large and fine and fair
As they were when she was young.
And, up the farm and down,
164
And the barley-field is brown.
She takes her little trembling share,
When the harvest song is sung,
Only the ears are not so fair—
Ah! not so large and fine and fair
As they were when she was young.
She says when the tune for the dance is set
Her feet grow almost light,
And her heart would still be dancing yet
When the winds play up at night;
Only for this, she says: they pass
No more like a dancer's tread,
But as if they blew across the grass—
The long, wild, waving, tear-wet grass—
That grows above her dead.
Her feet grow almost light,
And her heart would still be dancing yet
When the winds play up at night;
Only for this, she says: they pass
No more like a dancer's tread,
But as if they blew across the grass—
The long, wild, waving, tear-wet grass—
That grows above her dead.
| Early and late poems of Alice and Phoebe Cary | |