 | Early and late poems of Alice and Phoebe Cary |  |
271
HEAVEN OUR HOME.
The fields with flowers a-blowing,
They all behind us lie—
Our autumn, it draweth nigh;
But oh, my friends, we are going
To the summer hills on high!
They all behind us lie—
Our autumn, it draweth nigh;
But oh, my friends, we are going
To the summer hills on high!
We are vexed with wars and warring—
Our strifes with our days increase,
But there cometh a swift release—
For oh, my friends, we are nearing
The life of eternal peace!
Our strifes with our days increase,
But there cometh a swift release—
For oh, my friends, we are nearing
The life of eternal peace!
Our roof-tree drops asunder—
Our floor-planks slide like sands—
In our doors the darkness stands;
But oh, my friends, there is splendor
In the house not made with hands!
Our floor-planks slide like sands—
In our doors the darkness stands;
272
In the house not made with hands!
We know no full completeness;—
In the sky of the day most clear
Some shadow is sure to appear;
But oh, my friends, there is sweetness
In the days of the endless year.
In the sky of the day most clear
Some shadow is sure to appear;
But oh, my friends, there is sweetness
In the days of the endless year.
The winds are beating and blowing—
The frost on our heads is white—
We are drawing near to the night;
But oh, my friends, we are going
To the morning land of light!
The frost on our heads is white—
We are drawing near to the night;
But oh, my friends, we are going
To the morning land of light!
In spite of the fast possession,
Our thoughts they flutter and flee,
Like wild birds out to sea—
For we long to know the fashion
Of the life that is to be.
Our thoughts they flutter and flee,
Like wild birds out to sea—
For we long to know the fashion
Of the life that is to be.
Our golden gains we are losing,
Our hopes are dim with dust,
But oh, my friends, we trust
What seemeth lost is for using
Where there is nor moth nor rust.
Our hopes are dim with dust,
But oh, my friends, we trust
What seemeth lost is for using
Where there is nor moth nor rust.
Our life is a twice-told story
That charm no longer lends;
But oh, my friends, my friends,
We are coming close to the glory
That never fades nor ends.
That charm no longer lends;
But oh, my friends, my friends,
We are coming close to the glory
That never fades nor ends.
273
We stand of our strength forsaken,
And sick unto death, in sooth,
But this we know of a truth,
That out of the dust we shall waken,
To a life of immortal youth.
And sick unto death, in sooth,
But this we know of a truth,
That out of the dust we shall waken,
To a life of immortal youth.
The winter brings rough weather,
And into the chill and the gloom
We go, and we never come;
But oh, my friends, we shall gather
Together in Heaven—our home.
And into the chill and the gloom
We go, and we never come;
But oh, my friends, we shall gather
Together in Heaven—our home.
| Early and late poems of Alice and Phoebe Cary | |