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