 | Early and late poems of Alice and Phoebe Cary |  |
269
HIDDEN THINGS.
The lily she has gone to bed,
And the little meadow-mouse
Has thatched the roof above her head,
And carpeted her house
All soft and warm, because she knows
The clouds will shortly bring the snows.
And the little meadow-mouse
Has thatched the roof above her head,
And carpeted her house
All soft and warm, because she knows
The clouds will shortly bring the snows.
That solemn bird that loves so well
To be superbly dressed,
Has taken his gorgeous chasuble
And left an empty nest;
He knows, the lily being gone,
That winter will come whistling on.
To be superbly dressed,
Has taken his gorgeous chasuble
And left an empty nest;
He knows, the lily being gone,
That winter will come whistling on.
The partridge now has ceased to drum,
And the bee, so sweet and brown,
Has left the barley-fields, and come
To her humming-house in town;
Her honeyed joys aforetime planned,
And all these things I understand.
And the bee, so sweet and brown,
Has left the barley-fields, and come
To her humming-house in town;
Her honeyed joys aforetime planned,
And all these things I understand.
But I neither understand nor know,
Though I strive with all my care,
When I do see the winter snow
A-gathering on my hair;
And see my youth quite fled away,
Why I do wish, nay, long to stay!
Though I strive with all my care,
When I do see the winter snow
A-gathering on my hair;
And see my youth quite fled away,
Why I do wish, nay, long to stay!
I know that only virtues thrive,
And know that folly hath no praise;
Yet, as the foolish women live,
I live, nor seek to mend my ways.
This is the mystery that I call
The hardest, saddest of them all.
And know that folly hath no praise;
270
I live, nor seek to mend my ways.
This is the mystery that I call
The hardest, saddest of them all.
I know that I must shortly lie
In the cold silence of the grave,
And I believe He reigns on high
Who died, and rose, and lives to save;
Yea, I believe, yet cry in grief,
Help, Lord, help thou mine unbelief!
In the cold silence of the grave,
And I believe He reigns on high
Who died, and rose, and lives to save;
Yea, I believe, yet cry in grief,
Help, Lord, help thou mine unbelief!
| Early and late poems of Alice and Phoebe Cary | |