[Poems by Cary in] The poets and poetry of the West with biographical and critical notices |
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PENITENCE. |
 | [Poems by Cary in] The poets and poetry of the West |  |
PENITENCE.
O, I am sick of what I am! Of all
Which I in life can ever hope to be;
Angels of light be pitiful to me,
And build your white wings round me like a wall;
And save me from the thought of what has been,
In days and years I have no pleasure in.
Which I in life can ever hope to be;
Angels of light be pitiful to me,
And build your white wings round me like a wall;
And save me from the thought of what has been,
In days and years I have no pleasure in.
Disabled, stalled in habit's deep-worn rut,
My labor is a vain and empty strife—
A useless tugging at the wheels of life
After the vital tendons all are cut:
I have no plea, no argument to make—
Only your love can save me for love's sake.
My labor is a vain and empty strife—
A useless tugging at the wheels of life
After the vital tendons all are cut:
I have no plea, no argument to make—
Only your love can save me for love's sake.
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The evil I have done I do deplore,
And give my praise to whom it doth belong
For each good deed that seemeth out of wrong
An accidental step, and nothing more.
Treasure for heavenly investment meant,
I, like a thriftless prodigal, have spent.
And give my praise to whom it doth belong
For each good deed that seemeth out of wrong
An accidental step, and nothing more.
Treasure for heavenly investment meant,
I, like a thriftless prodigal, have spent.
I am not in the favor of men's eyes,
Nor am I skilled immortal stuff to weave;
No rose of honor wear I on my sleeve,
To cheer the gloom when that my body lies
An unrigged hulk, to rot upon life's ford—
The crew of mutinous senses overboard.
Nor am I skilled immortal stuff to weave;
No rose of honor wear I on my sleeve,
To cheer the gloom when that my body lies
An unrigged hulk, to rot upon life's ford—
The crew of mutinous senses overboard.
What shall I bring thy anger to efface,
Great Lord? The flowers along the summer brooks
In bashful silence praise Thee with sweet looks,
But I, alas! am poor in beauty's grace,
And am undone—lost utterly, unless
My faults thou buriest in thy tenderness.
Great Lord? The flowers along the summer brooks
In bashful silence praise Thee with sweet looks,
But I, alas! am poor in beauty's grace,
And am undone—lost utterly, unless
My faults thou buriest in thy tenderness.
| [Poems by Cary in] The poets and poetry of the West | |