 | The poetical works of Lucy Larcom |  |
DOOR AND KEEPER.
The corridors of Time
Are full of doors,—the portals of closed years;
We enter them no more, though bitter tears
Beat hard against them, and we hear the chime
Of lost dreams, dirge-like, in behind them ring
At Memory's opening.
Are full of doors,—the portals of closed years;
We enter them no more, though bitter tears
Beat hard against them, and we hear the chime
Of lost dreams, dirge-like, in behind them ring
At Memory's opening.
But one door stands ajar,—
The New Year's; while a golden chain of days
Holds it half shut. The eager foot delays
That presses toward its threshold's mighty bar;
And fears that shrink, and hopes that shout aloud,
Around it wait and crowd.
The New Year's; while a golden chain of days
Holds it half shut. The eager foot delays
That presses toward its threshold's mighty bar;
And fears that shrink, and hopes that shout aloud,
Around it wait and crowd.
It shuts back the Unknown:
And dare we truly welcome one more year,
Who down the past a mocking laughter hear
From idle aims like wandering breezes blown?
We, whose large aspirations dimmed and shrank,
Till the year's scroll was blank?
And dare we truly welcome one more year,
Who down the past a mocking laughter hear
From idle aims like wandering breezes blown?
We, whose large aspirations dimmed and shrank,
Till the year's scroll was blank?
We pause beside this door.
Thy year, O God, how shall we enter in?
How shall we thence Thy hidden treasures win?
Shall we return in beggary, as before,
When Thou art near at hand, with infinite wealth,
Wisdom, and heavenly health?
Thy year, O God, how shall we enter in?
How shall we thence Thy hidden treasures win?
Shall we return in beggary, as before,
When Thou art near at hand, with infinite wealth,
Wisdom, and heavenly health?
The footsteps of a Child
Sound close beside us. Listen! He will speak!
His birthday bells have hardly rung a week,
Yet has He trod the world's press undefiled:
“Come with me!” hear him through his smiling say.
“Behold, I am the Way!”
Sound close beside us. Listen! He will speak!
His birthday bells have hardly rung a week,
Yet has He trod the world's press undefiled:
“Come with me!” hear him through his smiling say.
“Behold, I am the Way!”
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Against the door His face
Shines as the sun; His touch is a command;
The years unfold before His baby hand;
The beauty of His presence fills all space.
“Enter through me,” He saith, “nor wander more;
For lo! I am the Door.”
Shines as the sun; His touch is a command;
The years unfold before His baby hand;
The beauty of His presence fills all space.
“Enter through me,” He saith, “nor wander more;
For lo! I am the Door.”
And all doors openeth He,
The new-born Christ, the Lord of the New Year,
The threshold of our locked hearts standeth near;
And while He gives us back love's rusted key,
Our Future on us with His eyes has smiled
Even as a little child.
The new-born Christ, the Lord of the New Year,
The threshold of our locked hearts standeth near;
And while He gives us back love's rusted key,
Our Future on us with His eyes has smiled
Even as a little child.
| The poetical works of Lucy Larcom | |