 | [Poems by Cary in] The poems of Alice and Phoebe Cary with introduction and notes |  |
OUR BABY.
When the morning, half in shadow,
Ran along the hill and meadow,
And with milk-white fingers parted
Crimson roses, golden-hearted;
Opening over ruins hoary
Every purple morning-glory,
And outshaking from the bushes
Singing larks and pleasant thrushes;—
That's the time our little baby,
Strayed from Paradise, it may be,
Came with eyes like heaven above her:
O, we could not choose but love her!
Ran along the hill and meadow,
And with milk-white fingers parted
Crimson roses, golden-hearted;
Opening over ruins hoary
Every purple morning-glory,
And outshaking from the bushes
Singing larks and pleasant thrushes;—
That's the time our little baby,
Strayed from Paradise, it may be,
Came with eyes like heaven above her:
O, we could not choose but love her!
Not enough of earth for sinning,
Always gentle, always winning,
Never needing our reproving,
Ever lovely, ever loving;
Starry eyes and sunset tresses,
White arms, made for light caresses,
Lips that knew no word of doubting,
Often kissing, never pouting;
Beauty even in completeness,
Overfull in childish sweetness;—
That 's the way our little baby,
Far too pure for earth, it may be,
Seemed to us, who while about her
Deemed we could not do without her.
Always gentle, always winning,
Never needing our reproving,
Ever lovely, ever loving;
Starry eyes and sunset tresses,
White arms, made for light caresses,
Lips that knew no word of doubting,
Often kissing, never pouting;
Beauty even in completeness,
Overfull in childish sweetness;—
That 's the way our little baby,
Far too pure for earth, it may be,
Seemed to us, who while about her
Deemed we could not do without her.
When the morning, half in shadow,
Ran along the hill and meadow,
And with milk-white fingers parted
Crimson roses, golden-hearted;
Opening over ruins hoary
Every purple morning-glory,
And outshaking from the bushes
Singing larks and pleasant thrushes:—
That 's the time our little baby,
Pining here for heaven, it may be,
Turning from our bitter weeping,
Closed her eyes as when in sleeping,
And her white hands on her bosom
Folded like a summer blossom.
Ran along the hill and meadow,
And with milk-white fingers parted
Crimson roses, golden-hearted;
408
Every purple morning-glory,
And outshaking from the bushes
Singing larks and pleasant thrushes:—
That 's the time our little baby,
Pining here for heaven, it may be,
Turning from our bitter weeping,
Closed her eyes as when in sleeping,
And her white hands on her bosom
Folded like a summer blossom.
Now the litter she doth lie on,
Strewed with roses, bear to Zion;
Go, as past a pleasant meadow
Through the valley of the shadow;
Take her softly, holy angels,
Past the ranks of God's evangels,
Past the saints and martyrs holy,
To the Earth-born, meek and lowly;
We would have our precious blossom
Softly laid in Jesus' bosom.
Strewed with roses, bear to Zion;
Go, as past a pleasant meadow
Through the valley of the shadow;
Take her softly, holy angels,
Past the ranks of God's evangels,
Past the saints and martyrs holy,
To the Earth-born, meek and lowly;
We would have our precious blossom
Softly laid in Jesus' bosom.
| [Poems by Cary in] The poems of Alice and Phoebe Cary with introduction and notes | |