 | [Poems by Cary in] The poems of Alice and Phoebe Cary |  |
218
A RUIN.
A silver mist the valley shrouds,
The summer day is nearly by;
Like pyramids of flowers, the clouds
Are floating in the sunset sky.
Now up the hills the white mists curl,
The dew shines in the vale below,
And on the oak, like beads of pearl,
The white buds of the mistletoe.
The rustling shadows, dropt with gold,
Among the boughs of green and white,
Are mingling softly, soon to fold
In their embrace the fainting light.
“Lone one, above whose solemn brow
The oak leaves wave so green and slow,
Night, gloomy night is darkening now:
Sweet friend, arise and let us go.”
The summer day is nearly by;
Like pyramids of flowers, the clouds
Are floating in the sunset sky.
Now up the hills the white mists curl,
The dew shines in the vale below,
And on the oak, like beads of pearl,
The white buds of the mistletoe.
The rustling shadows, dropt with gold,
Among the boughs of green and white,
Are mingling softly, soon to fold
In their embrace the fainting light.
“Lone one, above whose solemn brow
The oak leaves wave so green and slow,
Night, gloomy night is darkening now:
Sweet friend, arise and let us go.”
Lifting his head a little up
From the poor pillow where it lay,
And pushing from his forehead pale
The long, damp tresses all away—
He told me with the eager haste
Of one who dare not trust his words,
He knew a mortal with a voice
As low and lovely as a bird's;
But that he saw once in a dell
Away from them a weary space,
A fragile lily, which as well
Might woo that old oak's green embrace,
As for his heart to hope that she,
Whose palace chambers ne'er grew dim,
Would leave the light in which she moved
To wander through the dark with him;
From the poor pillow where it lay,
And pushing from his forehead pale
The long, damp tresses all away—
He told me with the eager haste
Of one who dare not trust his words,
He knew a mortal with a voice
As low and lovely as a bird's;
But that he saw once in a dell
Away from them a weary space,
A fragile lily, which as well
Might woo that old oak's green embrace,
As for his heart to hope that she,
Whose palace chambers ne'er grew dim,
Would leave the light in which she moved
To wander through the dark with him;
For that, once being out to sow
The rows of poppies in the corn,
She crossed him, and he, kneeling low,
Said, “Sweetest lady e'er was born,
Have pity on my love;” but quite
Her scornful eyes eclipsed the day;
And passing, all the hills grew bright,
As if the spring had gone that way.
And he, scarce knowing what he did,
But feeling that his heart was broke,
Fled from her pitiless glance, and hid
In the cold shadows of that oak,
Where, as he said, she came at night,
And clasped him from the bitter air,
With her soft arms of fairest white,
And the dark beauty of her hair.
But when the morning lit the spray,
And hung its wreath about his head,
The lovely lady passed away,
Through mists of glory pale and red.
The rows of poppies in the corn,
She crossed him, and he, kneeling low,
Said, “Sweetest lady e'er was born,
Have pity on my love;” but quite
Her scornful eyes eclipsed the day;
219
As if the spring had gone that way.
And he, scarce knowing what he did,
But feeling that his heart was broke,
Fled from her pitiless glance, and hid
In the cold shadows of that oak,
Where, as he said, she came at night,
And clasped him from the bitter air,
With her soft arms of fairest white,
And the dark beauty of her hair.
But when the morning lit the spray,
And hung its wreath about his head,
The lovely lady passed away,
Through mists of glory pale and red.
So bitter grew his heaving sighs,
So mournful dark the glance he raised;
I looked upon him earnestly
And saw the gentle boy was crazed.
How fair he was! it made me sad,
And sadder still my bosom grew,
To think no earthly hand could build
That beautiful ruin up anew.
So mournful dark the glance he raised;
I looked upon him earnestly
And saw the gentle boy was crazed.
How fair he was! it made me sad,
And sadder still my bosom grew,
To think no earthly hand could build
That beautiful ruin up anew.
| [Poems by Cary in] The poems of Alice and Phoebe Cary | |