 | Early and late poems of Alice and Phoebe Cary |  |
THE GRAVE OF THE SETTLER'S BOY.
The hill is bleak and bare enough,
Thistles are all the flowers it owns;
Round it the road runs zigzag, rough
With miry ruts and loose, gray stones.
Thistles are all the flowers it owns;
Round it the road runs zigzag, rough
With miry ruts and loose, gray stones.
Ay, bleak and bare and cheerless, save
One quiet spot that scarce is seen,
And there, about a little grave,
The turf is smooth, and low and green.
One quiet spot that scarce is seen,
And there, about a little grave,
The turf is smooth, and low and green.
For, seeing that lone grave, sometimes
The teamster checks his whistling gay,
And blocks his heavy wheel, and climbs
The fence, and pulls the weeds away.
The teamster checks his whistling gay,
And blocks his heavy wheel, and climbs
The fence, and pulls the weeds away.
There kindly nature paints the shade
With insects, as with tenderest dies;
There fox and hare, all unafraid,
Look straight into the hunter's eyes.
With insects, as with tenderest dies;
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Look straight into the hunter's eyes.
For while he thinks of suns gone down,
Of hopes long lost, of long-lost care,
His trusty rifle, bright and brown,
Slips from his shoulder, unaware.
Of hopes long lost, of long-lost care,
His trusty rifle, bright and brown,
Slips from his shoulder, unaware.
All things are solemn; 'gainst the sky,
The wood, a mass of shadow flows,
And high above the shoals of rye,
Her long, red arms the wild-brier throws.
The wood, a mass of shadow flows,
And high above the shoals of rye,
Her long, red arms the wild-brier throws.
The birds scarce sing there even at morn,
But as the long, slow hours go past,
With golden bills and bills of horn,
Peck the black stubs, until at last,
But as the long, slow hours go past,
With golden bills and bills of horn,
Peck the black stubs, until at last,
Leaving the world to deeper gloom,
The sunshine from the landscape goes,
And o'er the yet rejoicing bloom
The moon her hoarded pallor snows.
The sunshine from the landscape goes,
And o'er the yet rejoicing bloom
The moon her hoarded pallor snows.
| Early and late poems of Alice and Phoebe Cary | |