 | The poetical works of Lucy Larcom |  |
HEAVEN'S NEED.
Ye who, passing, bore away
Best of sunshine from our day;
That rare glory which revives
On the sky of clouded lives,
When, through mists at evening rent,
Rays from inmost heaven are sent;
What of earth to you remains,
Mid imperishable gains?
Best of sunshine from our day;
That rare glory which revives
On the sky of clouded lives,
When, through mists at evening rent,
Rays from inmost heaven are sent;
What of earth to you remains,
Mid imperishable gains?
Mother-love, unchilled by change,
Absence wide, and coldness strange,
Mother-love, that here must yearn
Vainly for its full return
From the shallow heart of youth;
Art requited now, in truth?
Or does thy dumb longing go
Through heaven's happy overflow?
Absence wide, and coldness strange,
Mother-love, that here must yearn
Vainly for its full return
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Art requited now, in truth?
Or does thy dumb longing go
Through heaven's happy overflow?
Sister-love, so calm, so wise!
Starlight, risen on darkened skies;
Heart that made its rifled nest
Shelter for the homeless guest;
Of thy tenderness bereft,
Little warmth in life is left:
Has that new world's flood of bliss
Swept apart the ties of this?
Starlight, risen on darkened skies;
Heart that made its rifled nest
Shelter for the homeless guest;
Of thy tenderness bereft,
Little warmth in life is left:
Has that new world's flood of bliss
Swept apart the ties of this?
None may name a drearier thought:
Hearts we lean on need us not!
If they ask for us no more,
Gathering in heaven's affluent store,
Life is lonelier than we knew;
Sharper anguish thrills death through.
In this rubbish-heap of earth
Hides no pearl heaven's saving worth?
Hearts we lean on need us not!
If they ask for us no more,
Gathering in heaven's affluent store,
Life is lonelier than we knew;
Sharper anguish thrills death through.
In this rubbish-heap of earth
Hides no pearl heaven's saving worth?
God is good. His face they see,
And are glad eternally.
Yet they hear love's wordless prayer,
Sigh that stirs the peaceful air,
And our yearning secret tells
To the bending asphodels.
Lacks one drop their cup to fill;
Still they want us, wait us still!
And are glad eternally.
Yet they hear love's wordless prayer,
Sigh that stirs the peaceful air,
And our yearning secret tells
To the bending asphodels.
Lacks one drop their cup to fill;
Still they want us, wait us still!
| The poetical works of Lucy Larcom | |