 | Early and late poems of Alice and Phoebe Cary |  |
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POEMS OF LOVE.
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ROWAN RAMSEY.
Rowan Ramsey, she is plain—
Plain as you would plainness call;
Just her girlish golden hair
Round her brow and bosom fair,
For adornment, that is all!
Plain as you would plainness call;
Just her girlish golden hair
Round her brow and bosom fair,
For adornment, that is all!
Rowan Ramsey, she is vain
Of her girlish golden hair,
And her feet, if she but stir,
Dance about in spite of her,
Just to show how small they are!
Of her girlish golden hair,
And her feet, if she but stir,
Dance about in spite of her,
Just to show how small they are!
Rowan Ramsey, she is neat—
Stocking, petticoat of snow,
And her hair, like veil of lace,
Slippeth fitly to the place
Of her sleeve, so loose and low.
Stocking, petticoat of snow,
And her hair, like veil of lace,
Slippeth fitly to the place
Of her sleeve, so loose and low.
Rowan Ramsey, she is sweet;
Nature's child, as you will see;
Never any bramble-bud,
Born a mile deep in the wood,
Grew to blossom pure as she.
Nature's child, as you will see;
Never any bramble-bud,
Born a mile deep in the wood,
Grew to blossom pure as she.
Rowan Ramsey's smiles do flow
O'er her chaste, religious frown;
And no little saintly nun,
At her 'broidery in the sun,
Droppeth eyelid lowlier down.
O'er her chaste, religious frown;
And no little saintly nun,
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Droppeth eyelid lowlier down.
Rowan Ramsey, she is low,
High in goodness is her part;
When we stand up to be wed,
You shall see her golden head
Shining level with my heart.
High in goodness is her part;
When we stand up to be wed,
You shall see her golden head
Shining level with my heart.
Rowan Ramsey, she is small—
Never smaller maid appeared
Outside of a fairy bower;
I could hide her like a flower,
Underneath my grisly beard.
Never smaller maid appeared
Outside of a fairy bower;
I could hide her like a flower,
Underneath my grisly beard.
Rowan Ramsey, she is all
Just as I would have her be;
Golden hair, and gown so simple,
Brow and bosom, smile and dimple,
Sweet as ever sweet can be!
Just as I would have her be;
Golden hair, and gown so simple,
Brow and bosom, smile and dimple,
Sweet as ever sweet can be!
THE OLD MAN WHO WOULD A-WOOING GO.
Mistress lady-lark, mistress lady-lark,
Fly up, fly out of the furrow!
And strip your two round shoulders stark,
For I your wings would borrow.
Ere the east has got a rosy mark,
I must bid my love good-morrow.
Fly up, fly out of the furrow!
And strip your two round shoulders stark,
For I your wings would borrow.
Ere the east has got a rosy mark,
I must bid my love good-morrow.
Mistress violet, mistress violet,
I want your tender and true eyes!
For mine are as cold and as black as jet,
And I want your heavenly blue eyes!
Modest violet, maiden violet,
Pray, can I borrow your blue eyes?
I want your tender and true eyes!
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And I want your heavenly blue eyes!
Modest violet, maiden violet,
Pray, can I borrow your blue eyes?
Mistress nightingale, mistress nightingale,
I want to borrow your fair tongue,
For I have to sing a sweeter tale
Than ever you in the air sung;
Melodious mistress nightingale,
Be still, and lend me your fair tongue!
I want to borrow your fair tongue,
For I have to sing a sweeter tale
Than ever you in the air sung;
Melodious mistress nightingale,
Be still, and lend me your fair tongue!
Master redbreast, robin redbreast,
Whose note has so oft my day cheered,
You wear the color my love loves best—
Will you lend it to a graybeard?
Oh, stay, my little man, stay in your nest,
And make me brave for a graybeard!
Whose note has so oft my day cheered,
You wear the color my love loves best—
Will you lend it to a graybeard?
Oh, stay, my little man, stay in your nest,
And make me brave for a graybeard!
Master golden-bill, master golden-bill,
Come speak, and tell me whether
You will lend, to make me a quill,
A hollow silver feather?
A letter with love I have to fill—
Say, shall we write together?
Come speak, and tell me whether
You will lend, to make me a quill,
A hollow silver feather?
A letter with love I have to fill—
Say, shall we write together?
PICTURES IN THE FIRE.
The hickory coals were glowing bright
Upon the hearth so broad and wide,
And I was sitting in their light,
And Elsie by my side.
Upon the hearth so broad and wide,
And I was sitting in their light,
And Elsie by my side.
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The tangles of her cloudy hair
She pushed aside, and just to see
More plainly where the pictures were
She leaned upon my knee.
She pushed aside, and just to see
More plainly where the pictures were
She leaned upon my knee.
A rustic boy, with bare, brown feet,
Right where the coals were deepest red,
Binding up roses among wheat,
She saw, so plain, she said.
Right where the coals were deepest red,
Binding up roses among wheat,
She saw, so plain, she said.
And then to make me see him too,
About my neck, with witching grace,
She put her arm, and softly drew
My face against her face.
About my neck, with witching grace,
She put her arm, and softly drew
My face against her face.
Ah, is it strange I said I found
A picture that was very sweet,
But not a rustic boy that bound
Roses among his wheat!
A picture that was very sweet,
But not a rustic boy that bound
Roses among his wheat!
Dear Elsie, in her modest tire,
I painted then with bashful art,
And said I saw her in the fire
A burning in my heart.
I painted then with bashful art,
And said I saw her in the fire
A burning in my heart.
And is it strange if new delight
Shook out to flowers our budding souls?
The while we sat and watched that night
For pictures in the coals.
Shook out to flowers our budding souls?
The while we sat and watched that night
For pictures in the coals.
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MARGARET.
Margaret sat in her chamber,
Her gilded and garnished chamber,
And she made to her heart low hushes,
As we sing a babe to rest,
And she sighed betwixt her blushes,
Oh, where is my own true lover,
My beautiful, beautiful lover,
My beautiful soldier and lover,
My bravest and my best!
Her gilded and garnished chamber,
And she made to her heart low hushes,
As we sing a babe to rest,
And she sighed betwixt her blushes,
Oh, where is my own true lover,
My beautiful, beautiful lover,
My beautiful soldier and lover,
My bravest and my best!
He is coming, she sang, he is coming!
My soldier and lover is coming!
My dreams they were wild with warning;
Poor heart, beat not so low.
See, see! 't is the broad, bright morning!
And where are the damp, dim meadows,
The blighted and bloomless meadows,
Where a shadow, leading shadows,
All night I saw him go!
My soldier and lover is coming!
My dreams they were wild with warning;
Poor heart, beat not so low.
See, see! 't is the broad, bright morning!
And where are the damp, dim meadows,
The blighted and bloomless meadows,
Where a shadow, leading shadows,
All night I saw him go!
So Margaret sat in her chamber,
Alone in her lofty chamber,
With its crimson carpets glowing,
And curtains blue as the sky;
And she kept her tears from flowing,
And her fears from wild awaking,
And her heart from outright breaking
With the little song she was making,
“O my lover, he could not die!”
Alone in her lofty chamber,
With its crimson carpets glowing,
And curtains blue as the sky;
And she kept her tears from flowing,
And her fears from wild awaking,
And her heart from outright breaking
With the little song she was making,
“O my lover, he could not die!”
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Again and again she found him,
With upturned faces around him,
Yet sang she over and over
The lullaby song, so sweet:
“He is coming, my soldier and lover!
O roses, burst into blooming,
And bees, be goldenly humming,
To grace and gladden his coming,
Whenever the hour shall beat!”
With upturned faces around him,
Yet sang she over and over
The lullaby song, so sweet:
“He is coming, my soldier and lover!
O roses, burst into blooming,
And bees, be goldenly humming,
To grace and gladden his coming,
Whenever the hour shall beat!”
SPINNING.
Put on the bands! begin, begin!
My wheel to-day of itself will spin—
The wool is as white as the daisies;
Before the first lark flew at the sky,
Lem, my lover, went whistling by,
And my cheek yet burns and blazes
Like a rose the sunshine praises.
My wheel to-day of itself will spin—
The wool is as white as the daisies;
Before the first lark flew at the sky,
Lem, my lover, went whistling by,
And my cheek yet burns and blazes
Like a rose the sunshine praises.
Every bird has its throat in tune,
The air is sweet as the middle June,
And my beautiful morning-glory,
Before it was time for the day to break,
Opened her blue eyes wide awake
To hear the wind's light story,
The wooing wind's light story.
The air is sweet as the middle June,
And my beautiful morning-glory,
Before it was time for the day to break,
Opened her blue eyes wide awake
To hear the wind's light story,
The wooing wind's light story.
My cows, their foreheads as soft as silk,
Leaned to my hands when I went to milk,
And gave me pails-full, and over;
And the doves that pecked at the dewy grass,
Cooed and fluttered to see me pass,
And the bee on the top of the clover
Shone with his gold all over.
Leaned to my hands when I went to milk,
And gave me pails-full, and over;
And the doves that pecked at the dewy grass,
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And the bee on the top of the clover
Shone with his gold all over.
My busy wheel, run fast, run fast!
You will bring the shadows straight at last,
Aslant from the meadow willows;
Then fast, and faster, and faster yet,
Till the Day shall turn a somerset
Clear into her cloudy pillows,
And the stars go to bed in the billows.
You will bring the shadows straight at last,
Aslant from the meadow willows;
Then fast, and faster, and faster yet,
Till the Day shall turn a somerset
Clear into her cloudy pillows,
And the stars go to bed in the billows.
And when the moon comes up in the skies,
And the flowers are shutting their sleepy eyes,
And the bee creeps under the clover—
Oh, then the light will be out in the mill,
And a step will be hurrying down the hill,
And that will be Lem, my lover!
My dear, my darling lover.
And the flowers are shutting their sleepy eyes,
And the bee creeps under the clover—
Oh, then the light will be out in the mill,
And a step will be hurrying down the hill,
And that will be Lem, my lover!
My dear, my darling lover.
Then turn by spindle, and off slip band,
And idle wheel, at the wall-side stand,
And, heart, make tenderest hushes;
What though I yet have my gown to spin,
He'll kiss my shoulders and hide them in
Ripples of rose-red blushes—
And I shall be dressed with blushes.
And idle wheel, at the wall-side stand,
And, heart, make tenderest hushes;
What though I yet have my gown to spin,
He'll kiss my shoulders and hide them in
Ripples of rose-red blushes—
And I shall be dressed with blushes.
MY ENEMY.
Ay, love did make my love of all things fair—
He combed and combed, as fine as threads of silk,
The leaves of daffodillies for her hair—
Her little hands compressed of curds of milk,
And set her in my path, and made her be,
From morn to eve, my sweetest enemy.
He combed and combed, as fine as threads of silk,
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Her little hands compressed of curds of milk,
And set her in my path, and made her be,
From morn to eve, my sweetest enemy.
He laid the leaves of roses in and out
From cheek to mouth, to dazzle me with light—
Round shoulder, throat, I dare not write about,
Or guess what place he got so pure a white;
But they were all composed to make her be
My pretty plague—my sweetest enemy.
From cheek to mouth, to dazzle me with light—
Round shoulder, throat, I dare not write about,
Or guess what place he got so pure a white;
But they were all composed to make her be
My pretty plague—my sweetest enemy.
He stole the music of the nightingale—
Of all best birds, the world of birds among,
And made such melodies as cannot fail
Of deadly work, to lie upon her tongue—
Built her a casement in the wall whence she
Might spread a snare of songs—sweet enemy.
Of all best birds, the world of birds among,
And made such melodies as cannot fail
Of deadly work, to lie upon her tongue—
Built her a casement in the wall whence she
Might spread a snare of songs—sweet enemy.
Her eyes! To know how I should name her eyes
Drives me about the world like one distraught—
An ever tender infinite surprise
Veiled, even as by their lids, with every thought
Shaped by my clumsy wits to make you see
How that she is my sweetest enemy.
Drives me about the world like one distraught—
An ever tender infinite surprise
Veiled, even as by their lids, with every thought
Shaped by my clumsy wits to make you see
How that she is my sweetest enemy.
I have no refuge from her any more.
If toward the house of sleep I take my flight,
'T is her white hand that turneth back the door,
Her arms that entertain me all the night,
So that her fatal charms do make her be,
Even in dreams, my sweetest enemy.
If toward the house of sleep I take my flight,
'T is her white hand that turneth back the door,
Her arms that entertain me all the night,
So that her fatal charms do make her be,
Even in dreams, my sweetest enemy.
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THE SAILOR'S CHILD.
Over the hilltops, over the mountains,
Over the stretches of long, bright lea,
There is a dear little, dim little island,
Lying asleep in the arms of the sea.
Over the stretches of long, bright lea,
There is a dear little, dim little island,
Lying asleep in the arms of the sea.
Shoulder to shoulder, and never aweary,
Roll in the sea-waters, day after day,
Fringing this dear little, dim little island
All with a wreath of the softest spray.
Roll in the sea-waters, day after day,
Fringing this dear little, dim little island
All with a wreath of the softest spray.
Birds, with wings that are lined with colors,
Made of the hues of the morns and eves,
Slip and slide like the summer sunshine
In and out through the dancing leaves.
Made of the hues of the morns and eves,
Slip and slide like the summer sunshine
In and out through the dancing leaves.
Over the reaches of green sea-waters,
Over the spray-fringe, white as snow,
Winds that are laden rich with spices,
Go and come, and come and go.
Over the spray-fringe, white as snow,
Winds that are laden rich with spices,
Go and come, and come and go.
Wrapt in a veil that is sown with blossoms,
Pink and ivy, apple and rose;
Singing loud with the lark at daybreak,
Low with the dove at the even-close—
Pink and ivy, apple and rose;
Singing loud with the lark at daybreak,
Low with the dove at the even-close—
Waits and watches a sailor's daughter,
Who, when the skies of the midnight frown,
Charms the demons that love the darkness,
And saves the ships that would else go down.
Who, when the skies of the midnight frown,
Charms the demons that love the darkness,
And saves the ships that would else go down.
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Waits and watches a sailor's daughter,
Fair as the fairest maidens be,
All in this dear little, dim little island,
Lying asleep in the arms of the sea.
Fair as the fairest maidens be,
All in this dear little, dim little island,
Lying asleep in the arms of the sea.
Once this maid had a loyal lover,
Born and rocked on the cradling waves,
Now he lies with their foam for a cover,
Low on the bed of the coral caves.
Born and rocked on the cradling waves,
Now he lies with their foam for a cover,
Low on the bed of the coral caves.
THE LOVER'S MAY-SONG.
As after the winter
So wild and so dread,
One waits by the lily
Fast froze in the bed
Of the garden, for some
Little leaf to appear,
So I wait, by my dear.
So wild and so dread,
One waits by the lily
Fast froze in the bed
Of the garden, for some
Little leaf to appear,
So I wait, by my dear.
Now soft airs are thawing
The icicles down
From the eaves, and the swallows
So bright and so brown,
Ere long in their places
Will twitter and sing,
Bill to bill—wing to wing.
The icicles down
From the eaves, and the swallows
So bright and so brown,
Ere long in their places
Will twitter and sing,
Bill to bill—wing to wing.
The low-cornel up through
The dead leaves will shoot,
And turn her whole heart
Into scarlet-hued fruit,
As the sun her white bosom
Makes quick with a kiss—
Think, my darling, of this!
The dead leaves will shoot,
And turn her whole heart
Into scarlet-hued fruit,
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Makes quick with a kiss—
Think, my darling, of this!
And think of the dear little
Rose-colored things,
That will lie all atremble
Like butterfly wings,
Because of their joy in
The beds of the moss,
And, my love, be not cross.
Rose-colored things,
That will lie all atremble
Like butterfly wings,
Because of their joy in
The beds of the moss,
And, my love, be not cross.
And think of the May-star,
That wears, like a queen,
Her pearls in a setting
Of emerald green—
How she gathers her tenderness
Out of the snow,
And you cannot say no.
That wears, like a queen,
Her pearls in a setting
Of emerald green—
How she gathers her tenderness
Out of the snow,
And you cannot say no.
And think of the cool-wort,
So timid and sweet,
How she cometh almost
In the face of the sleet,
The grace of her healing
On sick hearts to press,
And you needs must say yes.
So timid and sweet,
How she cometh almost
In the face of the sleet,
The grace of her healing
On sick hearts to press,
And you needs must say yes.
LOVE'S SPURNING.
Come row in my painted boat, Jane,
There 's something I would say—
'T is all about your marrying me,
And having your own way.
There 's something I would say—
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And having your own way.
The beanfields wrong your little hands,
Your feet are cold in the dew,
But if you will keep the ring of gold
That I have brought for you;
Your feet are cold in the dew,
But if you will keep the ring of gold
That I have brought for you;
No time of merriment shall fall
But that you shall be there—
Your shoulders wrapt in a shawl of lace,
And an ivory comb in your hair.
But that you shall be there—
Your shoulders wrapt in a shawl of lace,
And an ivory comb in your hair.
Row on in your painted boat, and leave
My beanfields in disgrace—
My sweetheart's arm around my neck
Is better than all your lace!
My beanfields in disgrace—
My sweetheart's arm around my neck
Is better than all your lace!
No ivory comb want I, nor ring,
Nor painted boat, so brave,
And the way that pleases him is all
The way that I care to have.
Nor painted boat, so brave,
And the way that pleases him is all
The way that I care to have.
THE RIVALS.
You need not stay by my bed, Tommy,
My wants are all gone by,
And something 's got in my head, Tommy,
That makes me wish to die.
My wants are all gone by,
And something 's got in my head, Tommy,
That makes me wish to die.
You need not kiss my face, Tommy,
Nor keep your hand on my brow,
For see in my eyes the shadow lies,
Of another lover, now.
Nor keep your hand on my brow,
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Of another lover, now.
Jennie is out at the gate, Tommy—
How fair she looks to-day!
My forehead is burning up, Tommy,
You must take your hand away!
How fair she looks to-day!
My forehead is burning up, Tommy,
You must take your hand away!
She wears your rose in her hair, Tommy—
'T is not so sweet as her breath,
Nay, do not kiss my mouth, Tommy,
I'm almost choked to death!
'T is not so sweet as her breath,
Nay, do not kiss my mouth, Tommy,
I'm almost choked to death!
She is coming up this way, Tommy—
I hear her footstep fall;—
Straighten me, sweet, from head to feet,
And turn me toward the wall.
I hear her footstep fall;—
Straighten me, sweet, from head to feet,
And turn me toward the wall.
I am saying foolish things, Tommy,
I am sick and crazed, you know,
But mind, 't is all myself, Tommy,
Not you, that makes me so.
I am sick and crazed, you know,
But mind, 't is all myself, Tommy,
Not you, that makes me so.
I wish I had better words, Tommy,
To thank you while I live,
For being so true, that I to you
Have nothing to forgive.
To thank you while I live,
For being so true, that I to you
Have nothing to forgive.
Don't fret when I am dead, Tommy,—
'T is sweeter thus to part,
Than to be upon my feet, Tommy,
If Jennie had your heart.
'T is sweeter thus to part,
Than to be upon my feet, Tommy,
If Jennie had your heart.
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HEART-BROKEN.
She sat beneath a willow-tree—
The enamored air scarce dared to stir;
The bird sang for her, and the bee
Seemed as he worked to work for her.
Ah, never was maiden so fair,
And the corn was in the milk,
And its tassel of bright silk
Lying loose on the wind like her hair.
The enamored air scarce dared to stir;
The bird sang for her, and the bee
Seemed as he worked to work for her.
Ah, never was maiden so fair,
And the corn was in the milk,
And its tassel of bright silk
Lying loose on the wind like her hair.
Out of the woods a hunter came—
His bugle to the cadence swung,
As artfully he wove her name
In the soft ditty that he sung.
And a shudder filled all the green place,
And the cloud that was at dawn
Like the white wing of a swan,
Grew black, and o'ershadowed her face.
His bugle to the cadence swung,
As artfully he wove her name
In the soft ditty that he sung.
And a shudder filled all the green place,
And the cloud that was at dawn
Like the white wing of a swan,
Grew black, and o'ershadowed her face.
Beneath the willow-tree so low,
She lay—her hands upon her breast,
All cold and white like winter snow
Within the last year's empty nest.
And the song of the hunter was still,
And the blackbird on the thorn
Whistled hoarsely, and the corn
Rustled withered and dry on the hill.
She lay—her hands upon her breast,
All cold and white like winter snow
Within the last year's empty nest.
And the song of the hunter was still,
And the blackbird on the thorn
Whistled hoarsely, and the corn
Rustled withered and dry on the hill.
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ONCE FOR ALL.
'T was in the bright morning of life and of love,
And earth in her springtime was smiling and gay,
I walked with my lady
A lane green and shady,
And all overblown with the rose-leaves of May,—
With pale and with bright leaves,
With red and with white leaves,—
O'erblown and o'erstrown with the roses of May.
And earth in her springtime was smiling and gay,
I walked with my lady
A lane green and shady,
And all overblown with the rose-leaves of May,—
With pale and with bright leaves,
With red and with white leaves,—
O'erblown and o'erstrown with the roses of May.
The sun up the east rode serenely and slow,
And swung back the silver-barred gates of the day;
'T was all so ideal
That nothing seemed real,
And which was the substance we hardly could say,
Ourselves, or our shadows,
As down the green meadows
We walked, through the leaves of the roses of May!
And swung back the silver-barred gates of the day;
'T was all so ideal
That nothing seemed real,
And which was the substance we hardly could say,
Ourselves, or our shadows,
As down the green meadows
We walked, through the leaves of the roses of May!
All sounds were so sweet, so celestially sweet,
We scarce could dissever the grave from the gay.
O blending confusions,
O darling illusions,
That filled up our hearts to o'erflowing that day!
Not we, but our shadows,
Along the green meadows,
Seemed brushing the dew from the daisies away.
We scarce could dissever the grave from the gay.
O blending confusions,
O darling illusions,
That filled up our hearts to o'erflowing that day!
Not we, but our shadows,
Along the green meadows,
Seemed brushing the dew from the daisies away.
Like butterfly wings caught with butterfly wings,
My fancies in speech fluttered this and that way,
As, deep among mazes
Of golden-eyed daisies,
I said, “Will you love me a little to-day?
'T is only a minute
Can have heaven in it;
Lady and lady-love, what do you say?”
My fancies in speech fluttered this and that way,
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Of golden-eyed daisies,
I said, “Will you love me a little to-day?
'T is only a minute
Can have heaven in it;
Lady and lady-love, what do you say?”
Her spirit stood calm, poised like butterfly wings,
And her eyes stabbed me through with a still, steady ray,
As turning serenely,
And standing so queenly,
She said, “Love a little? and just for a day!
Why, sir, the rough bramble
With scorn stands a-tremble,
And blushes up scarlet to hear what you say!”
And her eyes stabbed me through with a still, steady ray,
As turning serenely,
And standing so queenly,
She said, “Love a little? and just for a day!
Why, sir, the rough bramble
With scorn stands a-tremble,
And blushes up scarlet to hear what you say!”
Then, soft as the melting of frost into mist,
Her taunt to a tender reproach fell away;
“Is love an adorning,
To pluck of a morning,”
She said, “and to wear like a rose of the May?
Love lost is loved never—
Loved once is loved ever—
The joy of eternity, not of a day!”
Her taunt to a tender reproach fell away;
“Is love an adorning,
To pluck of a morning,”
She said, “and to wear like a rose of the May?
Love lost is loved never—
Loved once is loved ever—
The joy of eternity, not of a day!”
'T was all in the heyday of life, long ago,
And the gold and the black hair are both growing gray,
And through the rough weather
We walk on together,
For the wife of the years is my lady of May;
And still she says, ever,
“Loved once is loved never,”
And I answer, “Eternity—that is love's day!”
And the gold and the black hair are both growing gray,
And through the rough weather
We walk on together,
For the wife of the years is my lady of May;
And still she says, ever,
“Loved once is loved never,”
And I answer, “Eternity—that is love's day!”
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TRUE LOVE.
There is true love, and yet you mayHave lingering doubts about it;
I'll tell the truth, and simply say
That life 's a blank without it.
There is a love both true and strong,
A love that falters never;
It lives on faith, and suffers wrong,
But lives and loves forever.
Such love is found but once on earth—
The heart cannot repel it;
From whence it comes, or why its birth,
The tongue may never tell it.
This love is mine, in spite of all,
This love I fondly cherish;
The earth may sink, the skies may fall,
This love will never perish.
It is a love that cannot die,
But, like the soul, immortal,
And with it cleaves the starry sky
And passes through the portal.
This is the love that comes to stay—
All other loves are fleeting;
And when they come, just turn away—
It is but Cupid cheating.
245
THE FATAL ARROW.
My father had a fair-haired harvester;—
I gleaned behind him in the barley-land;
And there he put a red rose in my hand:
Oh, cruel, killing leaves those rose-leaves were!
I gleaned behind him in the barley-land;
And there he put a red rose in my hand:
Oh, cruel, killing leaves those rose-leaves were!
He sang to me a little love-lorn lay,
Learned of some bird; and while his sickle swept
Athwart the shining stalks, my wild heart kept
Beating the tune up with him all the way.
Learned of some bird; and while his sickle swept
Athwart the shining stalks, my wild heart kept
Beating the tune up with him all the way.
One time we rested by a limpid stream,
O'er which the loose-tongued willows whispered low;
Ah, blessed hour! so long and long ago,
It cometh back upon me like a dream.
O'er which the loose-tongued willows whispered low;
Ah, blessed hour! so long and long ago,
It cometh back upon me like a dream.
And there he told me, blushing soft,—ah me!—
Of one that he could love,—so young, so fair,
Like mine the color of her eyes and hair:
O foolish heart! I thought that I was she!
Of one that he could love,—so young, so fair,
Like mine the color of her eyes and hair:
O foolish heart! I thought that I was she!
Full flowed his manly beard; his eyes so brown
Made sweet confession with their tender look;
A thousand times I kissed him in the brook,
Across the flowers,—with bashful eyelids down.
Made sweet confession with their tender look;
A thousand times I kissed him in the brook,
Across the flowers,—with bashful eyelids down.
And even yet I cannot hear the stir
Of willows by a water but I stop,
And down the warm waves all their length I drop
My empty arms, to find my harvester.
Of willows by a water but I stop,
And down the warm waves all their length I drop
My empty arms, to find my harvester.
246
In all his speech there was no word to mend;
Whate'er he said, or right or wrong, was best,
Until at last an arrow pierced my breast,
Tipt with a fatal point,—he called me friend!
Whate'er he said, or right or wrong, was best,
Until at last an arrow pierced my breast,
Tipt with a fatal point,—he called me friend!
Still next my heart the fading rose I wore,
But all so sad; full well I knew, God wot,
That I had been in love and he had not,
And in the barley-field I gleaned no more.
But all so sad; full well I knew, God wot,
That I had been in love and he had not,
And in the barley-field I gleaned no more.
| Early and late poems of Alice and Phoebe Cary | |