 | Early and late poems of Alice and Phoebe Cary |  |
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POEMS OF NATURE AND HOME.
THE GRANDMOTHER.
She says she has left the world behind,
But the world is not forgot,
And says she keeps as strong in her mind
As she ever was, God wot.
Only the things about her change
Too fast for her to see,
And all is wide, and vast, and strange—
Ah! foolishly awry, and strange,
And not as it used to be!
But the world is not forgot,
And says she keeps as strong in her mind
As she ever was, God wot.
Only the things about her change
Too fast for her to see,
And all is wide, and vast, and strange—
Ah! foolishly awry, and strange,
And not as it used to be!
She says the boys are kept from school
To mind her, without call;
'T is pity if she cannot rule
Herself, who has ruled them all!
She will not have them stand and wait,
She can climb the stile alone,
Only the path is not so straight,
So smooth and pleasureful and straight,
As it was in the years agone!
To mind her, without call;
'T is pity if she cannot rule
Herself, who has ruled them all!
She will not have them stand and wait,
She can climb the stile alone,
Only the path is not so straight,
So smooth and pleasureful and straight,
As it was in the years agone!
She says her old eyes keep their sight,
And, up the farm and down,
She knows when the buckwheat-field is white,
And the barley-field is brown.
She takes her little trembling share,
When the harvest song is sung,
Only the ears are not so fair—
Ah! not so large and fine and fair
As they were when she was young.
And, up the farm and down,
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And the barley-field is brown.
She takes her little trembling share,
When the harvest song is sung,
Only the ears are not so fair—
Ah! not so large and fine and fair
As they were when she was young.
She says when the tune for the dance is set
Her feet grow almost light,
And her heart would still be dancing yet
When the winds play up at night;
Only for this, she says: they pass
No more like a dancer's tread,
But as if they blew across the grass—
The long, wild, waving, tear-wet grass—
That grows above her dead.
Her feet grow almost light,
And her heart would still be dancing yet
When the winds play up at night;
Only for this, she says: they pass
No more like a dancer's tread,
But as if they blew across the grass—
The long, wild, waving, tear-wet grass—
That grows above her dead.
NOONDAY AT HARVEST.
The middle of day, and the middle of June—
No breath of air is blowing,
And the still and sultry heats of noon
Glint hot along the mowing.
No breath of air is blowing,
And the still and sultry heats of noon
Glint hot along the mowing.
Now echoes from the distant horn
Come shrilling through the meadows,
Among the reapers reaping corn,
And the shadows reaping shadows.
Come shrilling through the meadows,
Among the reapers reaping corn,
And the shadows reaping shadows.
Now boldly out of the hills they start—
Now farther fade, and thinner,
And the farmer slowly mounts his cart,
And slowly drives to dinner.
Now farther fade, and thinner,
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And slowly drives to dinner.
Now out of the stubble's crispy beds,
And down to the marshy hollow,
While tossing their jackets over their heads,
The sunburnt reapers follow,
And down to the marshy hollow,
While tossing their jackets over their heads,
The sunburnt reapers follow,
In hats of straw, and blue shirt-sleeves,
And with herculean shoulders—
A picture they that needs must please
The eyes of all beholders.
And with herculean shoulders—
A picture they that needs must please
The eyes of all beholders.
With head dropt low, the sober gray
Betwixt the ruts steers surely,
And a little girl on a wisp of hay
By her father sits demurely;
Betwixt the ruts steers surely,
And a little girl on a wisp of hay
By her father sits demurely;
Trimming her locks of tawny gold
With leaves of rose and cedar,
While her little brother, ten years old,
Sits sideways on the leader.
With leaves of rose and cedar,
While her little brother, ten years old,
Sits sideways on the leader.
Loose dangle down his dusty feet,
His tongue like a crow is cawing,
And he keeps his balance in his seat
By even-timed see-sawing.
His tongue like a crow is cawing,
And he keeps his balance in his seat
By even-timed see-sawing.
Two cows that pasture in the road,
With never an eye to mind them,
Are stealing mouthfuls out the load
That is coming up behind them.
With never an eye to mind them,
Are stealing mouthfuls out the load
That is coming up behind them.
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Here, over the steep bank where they pass,
An old gray stone is cropping,
All round about it the tender grass
In luminous fringes dropping.
An old gray stone is cropping,
All round about it the tender grass
In luminous fringes dropping.
And there a water cuts the land
Betwixt the fields and fallows,
And silvery over the silver sand
Lies all in warm, soft shallows.
Betwixt the fields and fallows,
And silvery over the silver sand
Lies all in warm, soft shallows.
The merry horn no longer sounds,
The winds a hush are keeping,
And the echoes whisper back like hounds,
And fall in the hills a-sleeping.
The winds a hush are keeping,
And the echoes whisper back like hounds,
And fall in the hills a-sleeping.
And never a cricket makes his call,
Nor wild bird shows a feather,
As men and children, shadows and all,
Move slowly home together.
Nor wild bird shows a feather,
As men and children, shadows and all,
Move slowly home together.
MOTHER AND CHILD.
Within her rustic woodland bower,
Like some warm-hearted, tender flower,
With young buds all around her,
She kept, in her gracious and glad content,
And never a dream nor fancy went
From the tendrilled twigs that bound her.
Like some warm-hearted, tender flower,
With young buds all around her,
She kept, in her gracious and glad content,
And never a dream nor fancy went
From the tendrilled twigs that bound her.
The house was full of the pleasant noise
Of gay, glad girls and sturdy boys,
Each with a heart like a blossom;
They were seven—five ranged between
The head that was touching sweet sixteen
And the babe on the mother's bosom.
Of gay, glad girls and sturdy boys,
Each with a heart like a blossom;
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The head that was touching sweet sixteen
And the babe on the mother's bosom.
In hopeful toil the day went by,
And when the tired sun built in the sky
His great, red, cloudy bower,
She gathered her buds about her knee—
The sturdy three and the gentle three—
This motherly woodland flower.
And when the tired sun built in the sky
His great, red, cloudy bower,
She gathered her buds about her knee—
The sturdy three and the gentle three—
This motherly woodland flower.
And when the glory died in the west,
And the birds were all in the sleepy nest,
She would sit in the twilight shadow,
And think how her baby should grow so fine,
And make her place in the world to shine
As the lily maketh the meadow.
And the birds were all in the sleepy nest,
She would sit in the twilight shadow,
And think how her baby should grow so fine,
And make her place in the world to shine
As the lily maketh the meadow.
Years came and went, and the pleasant noise
Was hushed in the house, and the girls and boys
Came now no more about her;
As the bird went home to the drowsy nest,
And the sun to his cloudy bower in the west,
They had learned to do without her!
Was hushed in the house, and the girls and boys
Came now no more about her;
As the bird went home to the drowsy nest,
And the sun to his cloudy bower in the west,
They had learned to do without her!
The little children that used to be—
The comely three and the sturdy three—
Young men and beautiful maidens,
And each had chosen out of the heart,
And gone to be in a bower apart,
And to dress them separate Edens.
The comely three and the sturdy three—
Young men and beautiful maidens,
And each had chosen out of the heart,
And gone to be in a bower apart,
And to dress them separate Edens.
And the mother's thoughts went wearily
Across the prairie, and over the sea,
And through the wintry weather,
About the streets, o'er the desert sand,
To take them once again by the hand,
And to gather them all together.
Across the prairie, and over the sea,
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About the streets, o'er the desert sand,
To take them once again by the hand,
And to gather them all together.
But alway, as the sun went down,
And the gold and scarlet fell to brown,
And the brown to deeper shadow,
Her babe made all the house as bright
As the lily, with her leaves of light,
Maketh her place in the meadow.
And the gold and scarlet fell to brown,
And the brown to deeper shadow,
Her babe made all the house as bright
As the lily, with her leaves of light,
Maketh her place in the meadow.
She could not grow from the loving arms,
Nor go to meet the wide world's storms
Away from the lowly portals:
For Death, in the broidered slip and cap,
Had left her to lie in the mother's lap,
In her babyhood immortal.
Nor go to meet the wide world's storms
Away from the lowly portals:
For Death, in the broidered slip and cap,
Had left her to lie in the mother's lap,
In her babyhood immortal.
LONGINGS.
I long, how I long for some dim little nook,
With the leaves of the wild open rose for my book,
And to read there the sweet things, and things that are true,
Which the Lord's hand has written in sunshine and dew.
With the leaves of the wild open rose for my book,
And to read there the sweet things, and things that are true,
Which the Lord's hand has written in sunshine and dew.
And I long, my old mother, to lie on thy breast,
With never a thought to o'erlap the deep rest,
My warm to thy cold heart, my face to thy face—
A loyal and royal and restful embrace.
With never a thought to o'erlap the deep rest,
My warm to thy cold heart, my face to thy face—
A loyal and royal and restful embrace.
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I long so to whisper myself to the trees,
And to sing out my nature, as sings the free breeze,
And to make the waste places o'erflow with my strains,
As the meadows' green cisterns o'erflow with the rains.
And to sing out my nature, as sings the free breeze,
And to make the waste places o'erflow with my strains,
As the meadows' green cisterns o'erflow with the rains.
I long with great longing acquainted to be
With the hill-top, the mountain, the terrible sea;
To cry the wild cry of the raven, above,
And to 'plain with the turtle the dole of my love.
With the hill-top, the mountain, the terrible sea;
To cry the wild cry of the raven, above,
And to 'plain with the turtle the dole of my love.
I long from my feet to unfasten the shoes,
And my hair from its combs, and its fillets to loose,
And deep in the arms of the water to tread,
Till the leaves of the lilies are over my head.
And my hair from its combs, and its fillets to loose,
And deep in the arms of the water to tread,
Till the leaves of the lilies are over my head.
Ay, under the lilies to languish and swim—
All the world like a dream that is distant and dim—
No conscience to goad me, no cloud to o'ercast,
No hope for the future, no sigh for the past.
All the world like a dream that is distant and dim—
No conscience to goad me, no cloud to o'ercast,
No hope for the future, no sigh for the past.
O just for a day, for one day to be free
From all that I have been, from all I can be;
To feel, like a curtain, forgetfulness fall,
And shield me away from myself most of all.
From all that I have been, from all I can be;
To feel, like a curtain, forgetfulness fall,
And shield me away from myself most of all.
I long for this day stricken out and apart
From my friend, and my neighbor, my home and my heart,
And to find, with the swallow, some dear little nest,
When the crimson is fading all out of the west.
From my friend, and my neighbor, my home and my heart,
And to find, with the swallow, some dear little nest,
When the crimson is fading all out of the west.
A dear little nest, such as only can stand
In visions, and not on the sea or the land,
Where never that guest, that no other can see,
Should sit at the hearth-side, a terror to me.
In visions, and not on the sea or the land,
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Should sit at the hearth-side, a terror to me.
LO! THE SPRING RAIN!
Drip-a-drop! drip! drop!
O soft and soaking rain!
And paint all over the fairy's cup
The red on the golden grain,
And draw the green through the long white leaves
Of the frozen grass again.
O soft and soaking rain!
And paint all over the fairy's cup
The red on the golden grain,
And draw the green through the long white leaves
Of the frozen grass again.
Drip-a-drop out of the skies,
And winds blow east and west,
The lily lids are over her eyes,
And ye cannot break her rest;
All safe from wind and rain she lies,
With her hands across her breast!
And winds blow east and west,
The lily lids are over her eyes,
And ye cannot break her rest;
All safe from wind and rain she lies,
With her hands across her breast!
Drip-a-drop, fast or slow,
For your showers, or more or less,
Will never stain through her grassy roof
To the folds of her bridal dress—
Will never dampen the curl from the curls
That her pallid cheek caress.
For your showers, or more or less,
Will never stain through her grassy roof
To the folds of her bridal dress—
Will never dampen the curl from the curls
That her pallid cheek caress.
Drip-a-drop, call to the Eve
To shut up the daisy's eye,
And to teach the rose her leaves to close
Where the sweets compacted lie,
That she at the break of the day may wake,
And all outblush the sky.
To shut up the daisy's eye,
And to teach the rose her leaves to close
Where the sweets compacted lie,
That she at the break of the day may wake,
And all outblush the sky.
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Drip-a-drop all to the Morn—
Arise, disshadow the hills,
And send the larks from your nesting lap,
To wake the sun with their trills,
And shake the damps of dew from the lamps
Of the glorious daffodils.
Arise, disshadow the hills,
And send the larks from your nesting lap,
To wake the sun with their trills,
And shake the damps of dew from the lamps
Of the glorious daffodils.
Drop! drip, drop! drip, drop!
Till you empty each sable cloud;
For there never was sleep so still and deep
As the sleep of the folding shroud,
That only breaks when Gabriel wakes
The dead with his trump so loud.
Till you empty each sable cloud;
For there never was sleep so still and deep
As the sleep of the folding shroud,
That only breaks when Gabriel wakes
The dead with his trump so loud.
PLANTING SONG.
Up, my brown eyes! up, my brown eyes!
Get your white necks under the yoke—
Up, up, for the day has broke.
Red and yellow, yellow and red,
Like roses blown in a daffodil bed—
Up, my brown eyes, under the yoke!
Get your white necks under the yoke—
Up, up, for the day has broke.
Red and yellow, yellow and red,
Like roses blown in a daffodil bed—
Up, my brown eyes, under the yoke!
On, my brown eyes! on, my brown eyes!
Bend your white necks low to your work—
Early, early, early and late,
Stretch out the traces stiff and straight,
And plough up the furrows moist and dark—
Down with your white necks, down to your work!
Bend your white necks low to your work—
Early, early, early and late,
Stretch out the traces stiff and straight,
And plough up the furrows moist and dark—
Down with your white necks, down to your work!
Go, my brown eyes! go, my brown eyes!
White necks all of the yoke unworn—
Out, out, out of the traces—
Up, up, up with your faces!
And come, little maidens, and plant the corn!
Yellow, yellow, e'en as the morn!
White necks all of the yoke unworn—
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Up, up, up with your faces!
And come, little maidens, and plant the corn!
Yellow, yellow, e'en as the morn!
Rest, my brown eyes! rest, my brown eyes—
Free of the traces, night and morn!
Light as the dew-fall, light as the rain,
Patter back, little maids, again;
Back to the meadows you sowed with corn;
Feet so waxen, strong-limbed oxen,
Rest in the shade of the broad-leaved corn!
Free of the traces, night and morn!
Light as the dew-fall, light as the rain,
Patter back, little maids, again;
Back to the meadows you sowed with corn;
Feet so waxen, strong-limbed oxen,
Rest in the shade of the broad-leaved corn!
MILKMAID'S MARRIAGE SONG.
Come up, my speckle-face!
Come, my fair speckle-face!
Come, for the morning is bright as can be;
Leave the grass, dewy wet—
Leave the dear violet—
Come, my good speckle, you 're going with me!
Come, my fair speckle-face!
Come, for the morning is bright as can be;
Leave the grass, dewy wet—
Leave the dear violet—
Come, my good speckle, you 're going with me!
Out of the woody land,
Up through the meadow land,
Down by the flax-field, and past the gay corn;
Come, ere the rising sun
Over yon cloud so dun
On the high eastern hill pushes his horn;
Up through the meadow land,
Down by the flax-field, and past the gay corn;
Come, ere the rising sun
Over yon cloud so dun
On the high eastern hill pushes his horn;
Past the green barley ridge,
Over the shallow bridge,
On through the clover as red as a rose;
We must be far away,
Ere the blue eye of day,
Opening in sunshine, in shadow shall close.
Over the shallow bridge,
On through the clover as red as a rose;
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Ere the blue eye of day,
Opening in sunshine, in shadow shall close.
Come, little speckle-face,
Come from your hiding-place;
You must be combed till your coat is like silk—
Oh, but you'd proudly come
If you could know for whom
You shall hereafter give pails full of milk!
Come from your hiding-place;
You must be combed till your coat is like silk—
Oh, but you'd proudly come
If you could know for whom
You shall hereafter give pails full of milk!
Softly as marriage bells,
Through the low dipping dells
Brings the sweet water that runs to the sea;
Lift, lift your eyes so brown—
How can you keep them down,
When, little speckle, you 're going with me?
Through the low dipping dells
Brings the sweet water that runs to the sea;
Lift, lift your eyes so brown—
How can you keep them down,
When, little speckle, you 're going with me?
Never the buttercups
Shone with such pearly drops,
Never the meadow-lark sung out so gay;
Come from your hiding-place,
Speckle-face, speckle-face,
I'm to be married—be married to-day!
Shone with such pearly drops,
Never the meadow-lark sung out so gay;
Come from your hiding-place,
Speckle-face, speckle-face,
I'm to be married—be married to-day!
MAYING.
In the sweet time of May,
When fields and woods are gay,
And large and little flowers are all a-blooming,
I think that thou must find
This true, if thou but mind:
Pleasure is either past, or else a-coming.
When fields and woods are gay,
And large and little flowers are all a-blooming,
I think that thou must find
This true, if thou but mind:
Pleasure is either past, or else a-coming.
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When merry birds do crowd
The branches, singing loud—
The black, the bluebird—he of scarlet feather—
And tender, brown-eyed doves,
Make dole to tell their loves,
And winds and waters talk and laugh together;
The branches, singing loud—
The black, the bluebird—he of scarlet feather—
And tender, brown-eyed doves,
Make dole to tell their loves,
And winds and waters talk and laugh together;
When bees about their hives
Are working for their lives,
When with his shadow every leaf is dancing,
While from the land, the sea
For very joy doth be
Retiring now, and now again advancing;
Are working for their lives,
When with his shadow every leaf is dancing,
While from the land, the sea
For very joy doth be
Retiring now, and now again advancing;
When not a cloud be spied
The blue of heaven to hide,
And not a lamb of all the flock be straying,
I think if thou art fair,
Thou still must needs declare
'T is not our birthright here to go a-Maying.
The blue of heaven to hide,
And not a lamb of all the flock be straying,
I think if thou art fair,
Thou still must needs declare
'T is not our birthright here to go a-Maying.
THE SNOW-FLOWER.
The fields were all one field of snow,
The hedge was like a silver wall;
And when the March began to blow,
And clouds to fill, and rain to fall,
I wept that they should spoil it all.
The hedge was like a silver wall;
And when the March began to blow,
And clouds to fill, and rain to fall,
I wept that they should spoil it all.
At first the flakes with flurrying whirl
Hid from my eyes the rivulet,
Lying crooked, like a seam of pearl,
Along some royal coverlet—
I stood, as I remember yet,
Hid from my eyes the rivulet,
Lying crooked, like a seam of pearl,
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I stood, as I remember yet,
With cheeks close-pressed against the pane,
And saw the hedge's hidden brown
Come out beneath the fretting rain;
And then I saw the wall go down—
My silver wall, and all was brown.
And saw the hedge's hidden brown
Come out beneath the fretting rain;
And then I saw the wall go down—
My silver wall, and all was brown.
And then, where all had been so white,
As still the rain slid slant and slow,
Bushes and briers came out in sight,
And spikes of reeds began to show,
And then the knot-grass, black and low.
As still the rain slid slant and slow,
Bushes and briers came out in sight,
And spikes of reeds began to show,
And then the knot-grass, black and low.
One day, when March was at the close,
The mild air balm, the sky serene,
The fields that had been fields of snows,
And, after, withered wastes, were seen
With here and there some tender green;
The mild air balm, the sky serene,
The fields that had been fields of snows,
And, after, withered wastes, were seen
With here and there some tender green;
That day my heart came sudden up
With pleasure that was almost pain—
Being in the fields, I found a cup,
Pure white, with just a blood-red vein
Dashed round the edges, by the rain.
With pleasure that was almost pain—
Being in the fields, I found a cup,
Pure white, with just a blood-red vein
Dashed round the edges, by the rain.
The rain, which I that wild March hour
So foolishly had wept to see,
Had shaped the snow into a flower,
And thus had brought it back to me
Sweeter than only snow, could be.
So foolishly had wept to see,
Had shaped the snow into a flower,
And thus had brought it back to me
Sweeter than only snow, could be.
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THE TWO MOWERS.
I know not what brings back to-day
A scene of the long ago,
When, all betwixt the blue and the gray,
Two mowers came to mow.
A scene of the long ago,
When, all betwixt the blue and the gray,
Two mowers came to mow.
About the scythes that cut their path
The dewdrops fell in showers,
And every long and luminous swath
They swung, was mixed with flowers.
The dewdrops fell in showers,
And every long and luminous swath
They swung, was mixed with flowers.
Here ivies sweet and tufted crows
Lie low beneath their tread;
And there the slender neck of a rose
Without her royal head.
Lie low beneath their tread;
And there the slender neck of a rose
Without her royal head.
Swish! swish! and neither heeds nor spares
The pansy freaked with jet,
Nor she that sad embroidery wears,
Nor the milky violet.
The pansy freaked with jet,
Nor she that sad embroidery wears,
Nor the milky violet.
Swish! then a pause, and then another swath,
And a zigzag line is seen;
And in betwixt them, on the path,
A turf of sheltering green.
And a zigzag line is seen;
And in betwixt them, on the path,
A turf of sheltering green.
We children could not keep away,
But ran with skip and bound,
To find on her nest of sticks and clay
A bird so safe and sound.
But ran with skip and bound,
To find on her nest of sticks and clay
A bird so safe and sound.
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Her back as smooth and brown as a mouse,
And her wing of a ruddy glow,
Like the roof and hearthstone of the house
Whence the mowers came to mow.
And her wing of a ruddy glow,
Like the roof and hearthstone of the house
Whence the mowers came to mow.
How fixed the day in memory stands!
And the time of the day, for then,
We that had called them only hands
Began to call them men!
And the time of the day, for then,
We that had called them only hands
Began to call them men!
We made our hands with raking rough—
And the winds they kissed us brown;
And the shaggy beards grew fair enough
Before the sun was down.
And the winds they kissed us brown;
And the shaggy beards grew fair enough
Before the sun was down.
For we knew that deep in the hearts of both
True love had been the guest,
That made them cut the zigzag swath,
And spare the lowly nest.
True love had been the guest,
That made them cut the zigzag swath,
And spare the lowly nest.
PLEA TO OCTOBER.
Little 'tis I ask of thee,
Season fine and fair,
Lying betwixt the roses lost
And the falling of the frost—
Little for my share.
Season fine and fair,
Lying betwixt the roses lost
And the falling of the frost—
Little for my share.
Fortune has been hard with me;
Thou hast wealth to spare.
Thus my plea, the whole day long:
Shall I call it just a song,
Or shall I call it prayer?
Thou hast wealth to spare.
Thus my plea, the whole day long:
Shall I call it just a song,
Or shall I call it prayer?
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What thou wilt, thou may'st withhold,
Till we shall agree.
Lo! thou mak'st the winds that blow
'Twixt the sunflower and the snow
To be sweet with me.
Till we shall agree.
Lo! thou mak'st the winds that blow
'Twixt the sunflower and the snow
To be sweet with me.
Keep the daffodilly's gold,
Keep the corn and wine;
But some green and grassy nook,
Where to lie and read my book,
Leave, I pray, for mine.
Keep the corn and wine;
But some green and grassy nook,
Where to lie and read my book,
Leave, I pray, for mine.
Oh, be kind, be kind to me;
Nor let rough winds blow,
Putting out, with rainy nights,
All the twinkling meadow-lights,
Burning down so low.
Nor let rough winds blow,
Putting out, with rainy nights,
All the twinkling meadow-lights,
Burning down so low.
Hearts have failed me all the way
Toward the night's dread fall;
Grant that hour, for mercy's sake,
Love enough to keep awake,
Sweetest eyes of all.
Toward the night's dread fall;
Grant that hour, for mercy's sake,
Love enough to keep awake,
Sweetest eyes of all.
I contented am to be
Neither fine nor fair;
Lo! thou rightest me this wrong—
Slight it not for just a song,
But grant it for a prayer.
Neither fine nor fair;
Lo! thou rightest me this wrong—
Slight it not for just a song,
But grant it for a prayer.
Friendship may but last a day;
Passion is a spell
Transient as the whirlwind's breath;
Grant me love as strong as death—
Ay, indestructible!
Passion is a spell
Transient as the whirlwind's breath;
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Ay, indestructible!
A PASSING WISH.
Oh, for the life of a gipsy!
A strong-arm, barefoot girl;
And to have the wind for a waiting-maid
To keep my hair in curl;
To bring me scent of the violet,
And the red rose, and the pine;
And at night to spread my grassy bed—
Ah! would n't it be divine?
A strong-arm, barefoot girl;
And to have the wind for a waiting-maid
To keep my hair in curl;
To bring me scent of the violet,
And the red rose, and the pine;
And at night to spread my grassy bed—
Ah! would n't it be divine?
Oh, for the life of a gipsy!
So gloriously free!
Through the world to roam, and to find a home
'Neath every greenwood tree;
To milk my cow in the meadow,
Wherever she chanced to stand;
And to have my cornfields planted
By every lad in the land!
So gloriously free!
Through the world to roam, and to find a home
'Neath every greenwood tree;
To milk my cow in the meadow,
Wherever she chanced to stand;
And to have my cornfields planted
By every lad in the land!
Oh, for the life of a gipsy!
With the dew to fringe my gown;
And to have the sun for a sweetheart
To come and kiss me brown;
To take each little chubby-cheek
That I chose, and call her mine,
And teach her to tramp from camp to camp—
Ah! would n't it be divine?
With the dew to fringe my gown;
And to have the sun for a sweetheart
To come and kiss me brown;
To take each little chubby-cheek
That I chose, and call her mine,
And teach her to tramp from camp to camp—
Ah! would n't it be divine?
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Oh, for the life of a gipsy!
To lie in the lazy shades;
And to predict sweet fairings
To all the village maids;
To give them caps of pretty flowers,
And shawls of wool so white,
And troops of lovers to sing them songs
At their window-panes at night!
To lie in the lazy shades;
And to predict sweet fairings
To all the village maids;
To give them caps of pretty flowers,
And shawls of wool so white,
And troops of lovers to sing them songs
At their window-panes at night!
Oh, for the life of a gipsy!
To hunt the hare for play;
And to take my trap on my shoulder
And hie away and away—
Away to the tents by the water,
When the stars begin to shine—
To my glad wild crew, with hearts so true—
Ah! would n't it be divine?
To hunt the hare for play;
And to take my trap on my shoulder
And hie away and away—
Away to the tents by the water,
When the stars begin to shine—
To my glad wild crew, with hearts so true—
Ah! would n't it be divine?
Oh, for the life of a gipsy!
To be up at the dawning gray;
And to have my dog, like my shadow,
Beside me all the day;
To have a hat of plaited straw,
And a cloak of scarlet dye,
And shoot like a light through the glens at night,
And make the owlets cry!
To be up at the dawning gray;
And to have my dog, like my shadow,
Beside me all the day;
To have a hat of plaited straw,
And a cloak of scarlet dye,
And shoot like a light through the glens at night,
And make the owlets cry!
Oh, for the life of a gipsy!
To roam the wild woods through;
To have the wind for a waiting-maid,
And the sun for a sweetheart true;
To say to my restless conscience,
Be still; you are no more mine!
And to hold my heart beneath my art—
Ah! would n't it be divine?
To roam the wild woods through;
To have the wind for a waiting-maid,
And the sun for a sweetheart true;
To say to my restless conscience,
Be still; you are no more mine!
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Ah! would n't it be divine?
A YEAR AGO.
The sun across the hill
Is gazing bright and bold,
But the valley with the frost in her lap,
Chaste and chilly cold;
Is gazing bright and bold,
But the valley with the frost in her lap,
Chaste and chilly cold;
All in her sheets of mist,
From morn to evening lies,
Unconscious of the bold, bright face
Of her lover in the skies!
From morn to evening lies,
Unconscious of the bold, bright face
Of her lover in the skies!
Spirits of coming flowers
The sense wellnigh deceives;
The rose awaiting to be dressed
In her dainty body of leaves;
The sense wellnigh deceives;
The rose awaiting to be dressed
In her dainty body of leaves;
The hollyhock and pink,
For their cups of brown and red,
And the lily for a holy veil
To lap about her head.
For their cups of brown and red,
And the lily for a holy veil
To lap about her head.
The fisher sings by the sea,
As he mends his broken net,
And all with golden drops of light
Are the rainy shadows set.
As he mends his broken net,
And all with golden drops of light
Are the rainy shadows set.
In a cloud of whitest dreams,
But a little year ago,
Like a tender Alpine flower
Nestling under the snow,
But a little year ago,
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Nestling under the snow,
The lady of my heart
Was with me all day long,
And the tears came out of her happy eyes
To praise the fisher's song.
Was with me all day long,
And the tears came out of her happy eyes
To praise the fisher's song.
Her song is sweeter now
Than the fisher's by the sea,
And the rose in her dainty body of leaves
Is not so fair as she!
Than the fisher's by the sea,
And the rose in her dainty body of leaves
Is not so fair as she!
THE GRAVE OF THE SETTLER'S BOY.
The hill is bleak and bare enough,
Thistles are all the flowers it owns;
Round it the road runs zigzag, rough
With miry ruts and loose, gray stones.
Thistles are all the flowers it owns;
Round it the road runs zigzag, rough
With miry ruts and loose, gray stones.
Ay, bleak and bare and cheerless, save
One quiet spot that scarce is seen,
And there, about a little grave,
The turf is smooth, and low and green.
One quiet spot that scarce is seen,
And there, about a little grave,
The turf is smooth, and low and green.
For, seeing that lone grave, sometimes
The teamster checks his whistling gay,
And blocks his heavy wheel, and climbs
The fence, and pulls the weeds away.
The teamster checks his whistling gay,
And blocks his heavy wheel, and climbs
The fence, and pulls the weeds away.
There kindly nature paints the shade
With insects, as with tenderest dies;
There fox and hare, all unafraid,
Look straight into the hunter's eyes.
With insects, as with tenderest dies;
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Look straight into the hunter's eyes.
For while he thinks of suns gone down,
Of hopes long lost, of long-lost care,
His trusty rifle, bright and brown,
Slips from his shoulder, unaware.
Of hopes long lost, of long-lost care,
His trusty rifle, bright and brown,
Slips from his shoulder, unaware.
All things are solemn; 'gainst the sky,
The wood, a mass of shadow flows,
And high above the shoals of rye,
Her long, red arms the wild-brier throws.
The wood, a mass of shadow flows,
And high above the shoals of rye,
Her long, red arms the wild-brier throws.
The birds scarce sing there even at morn,
But as the long, slow hours go past,
With golden bills and bills of horn,
Peck the black stubs, until at last,
But as the long, slow hours go past,
With golden bills and bills of horn,
Peck the black stubs, until at last,
Leaving the world to deeper gloom,
The sunshine from the landscape goes,
And o'er the yet rejoicing bloom
The moon her hoarded pallor snows.
The sunshine from the landscape goes,
And o'er the yet rejoicing bloom
The moon her hoarded pallor snows.
PRESENCE.
The wild, sweet water, as it flows,—
The winds, that kiss me as they pass,—
The starry shadow of the rose,
Sitting beside her on the grass,—
The winds, that kiss me as they pass,—
The starry shadow of the rose,
Sitting beside her on the grass,—
The daffodilly, trying to bless
With better light the beauteous air,—
The lily, wearing the white dress
Of sanctuary, to be more fair,—
With better light the beauteous air,—
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Of sanctuary, to be more fair,—
The lithe-armed, dainty-fingered brier,
That in the woods, so dim and drear,
Lights up betimes her tender fire
To soothe the homesick pioneer,—
That in the woods, so dim and drear,
Lights up betimes her tender fire
To soothe the homesick pioneer,—
The moth, his brown sails balancing
Along the stubble crisp and dry,—
The ground-flower, with a blood-red ring
On either hand,—the pewit's cry,—
Along the stubble crisp and dry,—
The ground-flower, with a blood-red ring
On either hand,—the pewit's cry,—
The friendly robin's gracious note,—
The hills, with crimson weeds o'errun,—
The althea, with her crimson coat
Tricked out to please the wearied sun,—
The hills, with crimson weeds o'errun,—
The althea, with her crimson coat
Tricked out to please the wearied sun,—
The dandelion, whose golden share
Is set before the rustic's plow,—
The hum of insects in the air,—
The blooming bush,—the withered bough,—
Is set before the rustic's plow,—
The hum of insects in the air,—
The blooming bush,—the withered bough,—
The coming on of eve,—the springs
Of daybreak, soft and silver-bright,—
The frost that, with rough, rugged wings,
Blows down the cankered buds,—the white
Of daybreak, soft and silver-bright,—
The frost that, with rough, rugged wings,
Blows down the cankered buds,—the white
Long drifts of winter snow,—the heat
Of August, falling still and wide,—
Broad cornfields,—one chance stalk of wheat,
Standing with bright head hung aside,—
Of August, falling still and wide,—
Broad cornfields,—one chance stalk of wheat,
Standing with bright head hung aside,—
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All things, my darling, all things seem
In some strange way to speak of thee;
Nothing is half so much a dream,
Nothing so much reality.
In some strange way to speak of thee;
Nothing is half so much a dream,
Nothing so much reality.
My soul to thine is dutiful,
In all its pleasure, all its care;
O most beloved! most beautiful!
I miss, and find thee everywhere!
In all its pleasure, all its care;
O most beloved! most beautiful!
I miss, and find thee everywhere!
| Early and late poems of Alice and Phoebe Cary | |