 | Early and late poems of Alice and Phoebe Cary |  |
LO! THE SPRING RAIN!
Drip-a-drop! drip! drop!
O soft and soaking rain!
And paint all over the fairy's cup
The red on the golden grain,
And draw the green through the long white leaves
Of the frozen grass again.
O soft and soaking rain!
And paint all over the fairy's cup
The red on the golden grain,
And draw the green through the long white leaves
Of the frozen grass again.
Drip-a-drop out of the skies,
And winds blow east and west,
The lily lids are over her eyes,
And ye cannot break her rest;
All safe from wind and rain she lies,
With her hands across her breast!
And winds blow east and west,
The lily lids are over her eyes,
And ye cannot break her rest;
All safe from wind and rain she lies,
With her hands across her breast!
Drip-a-drop, fast or slow,
For your showers, or more or less,
Will never stain through her grassy roof
To the folds of her bridal dress—
Will never dampen the curl from the curls
That her pallid cheek caress.
For your showers, or more or less,
Will never stain through her grassy roof
To the folds of her bridal dress—
Will never dampen the curl from the curls
That her pallid cheek caress.
Drip-a-drop, call to the Eve
To shut up the daisy's eye,
And to teach the rose her leaves to close
Where the sweets compacted lie,
That she at the break of the day may wake,
And all outblush the sky.
To shut up the daisy's eye,
And to teach the rose her leaves to close
Where the sweets compacted lie,
That she at the break of the day may wake,
And all outblush the sky.
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Drip-a-drop all to the Morn—
Arise, disshadow the hills,
And send the larks from your nesting lap,
To wake the sun with their trills,
And shake the damps of dew from the lamps
Of the glorious daffodils.
Arise, disshadow the hills,
And send the larks from your nesting lap,
To wake the sun with their trills,
And shake the damps of dew from the lamps
Of the glorious daffodils.
Drop! drip, drop! drip, drop!
Till you empty each sable cloud;
For there never was sleep so still and deep
As the sleep of the folding shroud,
That only breaks when Gabriel wakes
The dead with his trump so loud.
Till you empty each sable cloud;
For there never was sleep so still and deep
As the sleep of the folding shroud,
That only breaks when Gabriel wakes
The dead with his trump so loud.
| Early and late poems of Alice and Phoebe Cary | |