 | The poetical works of Lucy Larcom |  |
GRACE AND HER FRIENDS.
Your walk is lonely, blue-eyed Grace,
Down the long forest-road to school,
Where shadows troop, at dismal pace,
From sullen chasm to sunless pool.
Are you not often, little maid,
Beneath the sighing trees afraid?
Down the long forest-road to school,
Where shadows troop, at dismal pace,
From sullen chasm to sunless pool.
Are you not often, little maid,
Beneath the sighing trees afraid?
“Afraid,—beneath the tall, strong trees,
That bend their arms to shelter me,
And whisper down, with dew and breeze,
Sweet sounds that float on lovingly,
Till every gorge and cavern seems
Thrilled through and through with fairy dreams?
That bend their arms to shelter me,
And whisper down, with dew and breeze,
Sweet sounds that float on lovingly,
Till every gorge and cavern seems
Thrilled through and through with fairy dreams?
“Afraid,—beside the water dim
That holds the baby-lilies white
Upon its bosom, where a hymn
Ripples forth softly to the light
That now and then comes gliding in,
A lily's budding smile to win?
That holds the baby-lilies white
Upon its bosom, where a hymn
Ripples forth softly to the light
That now and then comes gliding in,
A lily's budding smile to win?
“Fast to the slippery precipice
I see the nodding harebell cling:
In that blue eye no fear there is;
Its hold is firm, the frail, free thing!
The harebell's Guardian cares for me:
So I am in safe company.
I see the nodding harebell cling:
In that blue eye no fear there is;
Its hold is firm, the frail, free thing!
The harebell's Guardian cares for me:
So I am in safe company.
“The woodbine clambers up the cliff
And seems to murmur, ‘Little Grace,
The sunshine were less welcome, if
It brought not every day your face.’
Red leaves slip down from maples high,
And touch my cheek as they flit by.
And seems to murmur, ‘Little Grace,
The sunshine were less welcome, if
It brought not every day your face.’
Red leaves slip down from maples high,
And touch my cheek as they flit by.
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“I feel at home with everything
That has its dwelling in the wood;
With flowers that laugh, and birds that sing;
Companions beautiful and good,
Brothers and sisters everywhere;
And over all, our Father's care.
That has its dwelling in the wood;
With flowers that laugh, and birds that sing;
Companions beautiful and good,
Brothers and sisters everywhere;
And over all, our Father's care.
“In rose-time or in berry-time,
When ripe seeds fall or buds peep out,
While green the turf or white the rime,
There 's something to be glad about:
It makes my heart bound just to pass
The sunbeams dancing on the grass.
When ripe seeds fall or buds peep out,
While green the turf or white the rime,
There 's something to be glad about:
It makes my heart bound just to pass
The sunbeams dancing on the grass.
“And when the bare rocks shut me in
Where not a blade of grass will grow,
My happy fancies soon begin
To warble music, rich and low,
And paint what eyes could never see:
My thoughts are company for me.
Where not a blade of grass will grow,
My happy fancies soon begin
To warble music, rich and low,
And paint what eyes could never see:
My thoughts are company for me.
“What does it mean to be alone?
And how is any one afraid,
Who feels the dear God on His throne
Sending His sunshine through the shade,
Warming the damp sod into bloom,
And smiling off the thicket's gloom?
And how is any one afraid,
Who feels the dear God on His throne
Sending His sunshine through the shade,
Warming the damp sod into bloom,
And smiling off the thicket's gloom?
“At morning, down the wood-path cool
The fluttering leaves make cheerful talk;
After the stifled day at school,
I hear, along my homeward walk,
The airy wisdom of the wood,
Far easiest to be understood.
The fluttering leaves make cheerful talk;
After the stifled day at school,
I hear, along my homeward walk,
The airy wisdom of the wood,
Far easiest to be understood.
“I whisper to the winds; I kiss
The rough old oak and clasp his bark;
No farewell of the thrush I miss;
I lift the soft veil of the dark,
And say to bird and breeze and tree,
‘Good night! Good friends you are to me!’”
The rough old oak and clasp his bark;
No farewell of the thrush I miss;
I lift the soft veil of the dark,
And say to bird and breeze and tree,
‘Good night! Good friends you are to me!’”
| The poetical works of Lucy Larcom | |