 | Early and late poems of Alice and Phoebe Cary |  |
CHRISTMAS EVE.
No flowers were left in the meadows;
All empty and cold was the nest;
And the sun, in a white, cold bank of light,
Was going down in the west.
All empty and cold was the nest;
And the sun, in a white, cold bank of light,
Was going down in the west.
'T was the day before the Christmas;
And with young hearts all astir,
Now turning the reel and now the wheel,
And making the spindle whir,
And with young hearts all astir,
Now turning the reel and now the wheel,
And making the spindle whir,
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We two were alone in the garret—
My playmate Harley and I;
But the light sped fast, and we ceased at last
From making the spindle fly.
My playmate Harley and I;
But the light sped fast, and we ceased at last
From making the spindle fly.
Yet still through the darkening window
(You might cover it all with your hands)
We could see the wood, where the schoolhouse stood,
With its border of level lands.
(You might cover it all with your hands)
We could see the wood, where the schoolhouse stood,
With its border of level lands.
We could tell the elms from the walnuts,
And the oaks from all the rest,
As covered with snow and row after row
They shimmered against the west.
And the oaks from all the rest,
As covered with snow and row after row
They shimmered against the west.
We could see the barn with great square door,
And the stacks that beyond it rose,
The open sheds full of skeleton sleds,
And harrows and plows and hoes.
And the stacks that beyond it rose,
The open sheds full of skeleton sleds,
And harrows and plows and hoes.
We could see the horns of the cattle
As they tossed o'er the hay-filled racks,
Where together they fed with head over head,
And saddles of snow on their backs.
As they tossed o'er the hay-filled racks,
Where together they fed with head over head,
And saddles of snow on their backs.
Like pillars of salt in the garden,
We could see the hives of the bees,
And hear the wind's song as it hurried along
To waltz with the tops of the trees.
We could see the hives of the bees,
And hear the wind's song as it hurried along
To waltz with the tops of the trees.
We could see o'er the roofs of the village
The old St. Xavier's shine,
The Paternity, and the Holy Three,
With its steeple tall and fine.
The old St. Xavier's shine,
The Paternity, and the Holy Three,
With its steeple tall and fine.
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And my playmate Harley questioned:
“Can there be three Gods above?
Then how shall we pray, and who shall say
Which one is the God of Love?”
“Can there be three Gods above?
Then how shall we pray, and who shall say
Which one is the God of Love?”
And hand in hand from the window,
As sunk the sun from the earth,
We crossed the room, now dim with gloom,
And kneeling beside the hearth,
As sunk the sun from the earth,
We crossed the room, now dim with gloom,
And kneeling beside the hearth,
We gathered the faded embers
All out of their ashen bed,
And blew and blew, on our knees, we two,
Till the flame shot up, blood-red.
All out of their ashen bed,
And blew and blew, on our knees, we two,
Till the flame shot up, blood-red.
“Now, then,” said my playmate Harley.
“I will find it out for myself!”
And he gave a look to the old, old Book
That lay on the dusty shelf.
“I will find it out for myself!”
And he gave a look to the old, old Book
That lay on the dusty shelf.
And so, one over the other,
He piled up chair upon chair,
Then up he stept and on he crept
To the top of the trembling stair.
He piled up chair upon chair,
Then up he stept and on he crept
To the top of the trembling stair.
Then down with the Book on his shoulder,
And back to the fire he came,
And so, eager-eyed, he held it wide
With page aslant to the flame.
And back to the fire he came,
And so, eager-eyed, he held it wide
With page aslant to the flame.
Leaf after leaf of the yellow leaves
He turned them o'er so fast,
Till at length he said, with uplifted head:—
“I have found it out at last
He turned them o'er so fast,
Till at length he said, with uplifted head:—
“I have found it out at last
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“In the prayer which the Lord and Master
Has taught us all to say;
For surely He, if He prayed to three,
Would have taught us so to pray!
Has taught us all to say;
For surely He, if He prayed to three,
Would have taught us so to pray!
“And I don't care now if the steeples
Be three, or six, or seven!”—
And he read so loud it was almost proud—
“Our Father who art in Heaven.”
Be three, or six, or seven!”—
And he read so loud it was almost proud—
“Our Father who art in Heaven.”
And there in the dim old garret,
While the winds the rafters shook,
And with head bent low to the firelight glow,
And our two cheeks, over the Book,
While the winds the rafters shook,
And with head bent low to the firelight glow,
And our two cheeks, over the Book,
Like a rose that is growing double,—
We read, in an under-breath,
Of the holy morn when Christ was born,
And of all his life and death.
We read, in an under-breath,
Of the holy morn when Christ was born,
And of all his life and death.
How He gave himself our ransom,
And drank to the very brim
The bitter cup, to lift us up,
The whole great world, to Him.
And drank to the very brim
The bitter cup, to lift us up,
The whole great world, to Him.
And full and sweet was the comfort
Of the faith that there and then
To our hearts we took, as we closed the Book
With an all unbreathed Amen.
Of the faith that there and then
To our hearts we took, as we closed the Book
With an all unbreathed Amen.
And many and many a Christmas
Has come and gone with its light,
And all the years, through smiles or tears,
We have kept the old faith bright.
Has come and gone with its light,
And all the years, through smiles or tears,
We have kept the old faith bright.
| Early and late poems of Alice and Phoebe Cary | |