 | The poetical works of Lucy Larcom |  |
HILARY.
“Hilary!”
Summer calls, across the sea!
Like white flowers upon the tide,
In and out the vessels glide;
But no wind on all the main
Sends thy blithe soul home again:
Every salt breeze moans for thee,
Hilary!
Summer calls, across the sea!
Like white flowers upon the tide,
In and out the vessels glide;
But no wind on all the main
Sends thy blithe soul home again:
Every salt breeze moans for thee,
Hilary!
4
Hilary,
Welcome Summer's step will be,
Save to those beside whose door
Doleful birds sit evermore
Singing, “Never comes he here,
Who made every season's cheer:”
Dull the June that brings not thee,
Hilary!
Welcome Summer's step will be,
Save to those beside whose door
Doleful birds sit evermore
Singing, “Never comes he here,
Who made every season's cheer:”
Dull the June that brings not thee,
Hilary!
Hilary,
What strange world has sheltered thee?
Here the soil beneath thy feet
Rang with songs, and blossomed sweet:
Still the blue skies ask of Earth,
Blind and dumb without thy mirth,
Where she hides thy heart of glee,
Hilary!
What strange world has sheltered thee?
Here the soil beneath thy feet
Rang with songs, and blossomed sweet:
Still the blue skies ask of Earth,
Blind and dumb without thy mirth,
Where she hides thy heart of glee,
Hilary!
Hilary,
All things shape a sigh for thee!
Over waves, and fields, and flowers,
Through the lapse of odorous hours,
Breathes a lonely, longing sound,
As of something sought, unfound:
Lorn are all things; lorn are we,
Hilary!
All things shape a sigh for thee!
Over waves, and fields, and flowers,
Through the lapse of odorous hours,
Breathes a lonely, longing sound,
As of something sought, unfound:
Lorn are all things; lorn are we,
Hilary!
Hilary!
Oh, to sail in quest of thee,
On the trade-wind's steady tune,
On the hurrying monsoon,
Far through torrid seas, that lave
Dry, hot sands, a breathless grave.—
Sad as vain the search would be,
Hilary!
Oh, to sail in quest of thee,
On the trade-wind's steady tune,
On the hurrying monsoon,
Far through torrid seas, that lave
Dry, hot sands, a breathless grave.—
Sad as vain the search would be,
Hilary!
Hilary,
Chase the sorrow from the sea!
Summer-heart, bring summer near,
Warm, and fresh, and airy-clear!
Dead thou art not! dead is pain;
Now Earth sees and sings again,
Death, to hold thee, Life must be,
Hilary!
Chase the sorrow from the sea!
Summer-heart, bring summer near,
Warm, and fresh, and airy-clear!
Dead thou art not! dead is pain;
Now Earth sees and sings again,
Death, to hold thee, Life must be,
Hilary!
| The poetical works of Lucy Larcom | |