 | Early and late poems of Alice and Phoebe Cary |  |
SPINNING.
Put on the bands! begin, begin!
My wheel to-day of itself will spin—
The wool is as white as the daisies;
Before the first lark flew at the sky,
Lem, my lover, went whistling by,
And my cheek yet burns and blazes
Like a rose the sunshine praises.
My wheel to-day of itself will spin—
The wool is as white as the daisies;
Before the first lark flew at the sky,
Lem, my lover, went whistling by,
And my cheek yet burns and blazes
Like a rose the sunshine praises.
Every bird has its throat in tune,
The air is sweet as the middle June,
And my beautiful morning-glory,
Before it was time for the day to break,
Opened her blue eyes wide awake
To hear the wind's light story,
The wooing wind's light story.
The air is sweet as the middle June,
And my beautiful morning-glory,
Before it was time for the day to break,
Opened her blue eyes wide awake
To hear the wind's light story,
The wooing wind's light story.
My cows, their foreheads as soft as silk,
Leaned to my hands when I went to milk,
And gave me pails-full, and over;
And the doves that pecked at the dewy grass,
Cooed and fluttered to see me pass,
And the bee on the top of the clover
Shone with his gold all over.
Leaned to my hands when I went to milk,
And gave me pails-full, and over;
And the doves that pecked at the dewy grass,
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And the bee on the top of the clover
Shone with his gold all over.
My busy wheel, run fast, run fast!
You will bring the shadows straight at last,
Aslant from the meadow willows;
Then fast, and faster, and faster yet,
Till the Day shall turn a somerset
Clear into her cloudy pillows,
And the stars go to bed in the billows.
You will bring the shadows straight at last,
Aslant from the meadow willows;
Then fast, and faster, and faster yet,
Till the Day shall turn a somerset
Clear into her cloudy pillows,
And the stars go to bed in the billows.
And when the moon comes up in the skies,
And the flowers are shutting their sleepy eyes,
And the bee creeps under the clover—
Oh, then the light will be out in the mill,
And a step will be hurrying down the hill,
And that will be Lem, my lover!
My dear, my darling lover.
And the flowers are shutting their sleepy eyes,
And the bee creeps under the clover—
Oh, then the light will be out in the mill,
And a step will be hurrying down the hill,
And that will be Lem, my lover!
My dear, my darling lover.
Then turn by spindle, and off slip band,
And idle wheel, at the wall-side stand,
And, heart, make tenderest hushes;
What though I yet have my gown to spin,
He'll kiss my shoulders and hide them in
Ripples of rose-red blushes—
And I shall be dressed with blushes.
And idle wheel, at the wall-side stand,
And, heart, make tenderest hushes;
What though I yet have my gown to spin,
He'll kiss my shoulders and hide them in
Ripples of rose-red blushes—
And I shall be dressed with blushes.
| Early and late poems of Alice and Phoebe Cary | |