 | Early and late poems of Alice and Phoebe Cary |  |
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.
| Early and late poems of Alice and Phoebe Cary | |