 | The poetical works of Lucy Larcom |  |
IN TIME'S SWING.
Father Time, your footsteps go
Lightly as the falling snow.
In your swing I'm sitting, see!
Push me softly; one, two, three,
Twelve times only. Like a sheet
Spreads the snow beneath my feet:
Singing merrily, let me swing
Out of winter into spring!
Lightly as the falling snow.
In your swing I'm sitting, see!
Push me softly; one, two, three,
Twelve times only. Like a sheet
Spreads the snow beneath my feet:
Singing merrily, let me swing
Out of winter into spring!
Swing me out, and swing me in!
Trees are bare, but birds begin
Twittering to the peeping leaves
On the bough beneath the eaves.
Look! one lilac-bud I saw!
Icy hillsides feel the thaw:
April chased off March to-day;
Now I catch a glimpse of May.
Trees are bare, but birds begin
Twittering to the peeping leaves
On the bough beneath the eaves.
Look! one lilac-bud I saw!
Icy hillsides feel the thaw:
April chased off March to-day;
Now I catch a glimpse of May.
Oh, the smell of sprouting grass!
In a blur the violets pass:
Whispering from the wild-wood come
Mayflowers' breath, and insects' hum.
Roses carpeting the ground;
Orioles warbling all around:
Swing me low, and swing me high,
To the warm clouds of July!
In a blur the violets pass:
Whispering from the wild-wood come
Mayflowers' breath, and insects' hum.
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Orioles warbling all around:
Swing me low, and swing me high,
To the warm clouds of July!
Slower now, for at my side
White pond-lilies open wide:
Underneath the pine's tall spire
Cardinal-blossoms burn like fire.
They are gone; the golden-rod
Flashes from the dark green sod.
Crickets in the grass I hear;
Asters light the fading year.
White pond-lilies open wide:
Underneath the pine's tall spire
Cardinal-blossoms burn like fire.
They are gone; the golden-rod
Flashes from the dark green sod.
Crickets in the grass I hear;
Asters light the fading year.
Slower still! October weaves
Rainbows of the forest-leaves.
Gentians fringed, like eyes of blue,
Glimmer out of sleety dew.
Winds through withered sedges hiss:
Meadow-green I sadly miss.
Oh, 't is snowing; swing me fast,
While December shivers past!
Rainbows of the forest-leaves.
Gentians fringed, like eyes of blue,
Glimmer out of sleety dew.
Winds through withered sedges hiss:
Meadow-green I sadly miss.
Oh, 't is snowing; swing me fast,
While December shivers past!
Frosty-bearded Father Time,
Stop your footfall on the rime!
Hard your push, your hand is rough;
You have swung me long enough.
“Nay, no stopping,” say you? Well,
Some of your best stories tell,
While you swing me—gently, do!—
From the Old Year to the New.
Stop your footfall on the rime!
Hard your push, your hand is rough;
You have swung me long enough.
“Nay, no stopping,” say you? Well,
Some of your best stories tell,
While you swing me—gently, do!—
From the Old Year to the New.
| The poetical works of Lucy Larcom | |