 | [Poems by Cary in] The poems of Alice and Phoebe Cary |  |
OF ONE DYING.
In the blue middle heavens of June
The sun was burning bright,
What time we parted—now! alas,
'T is winter-time and night.
The swart November long ago,
With troops of gloomy hours,
Went folding the October's tents
Of misty gold, like flowers.
The sun was burning bright,
What time we parted—now! alas,
'T is winter-time and night.
The swart November long ago,
With troops of gloomy hours,
Went folding the October's tents
Of misty gold, like flowers.
The wind hangs moaning on the pane,
The cricket tries to sing,
And a voice tells me all the while,
It never will be spring;
It never will be spring to her,
For in the west wind's flow,
I hear a sound that seems to me
Like digging in the snow.
The cricket tries to sing,
And a voice tells me all the while,
It never will be spring;
243
For in the west wind's flow,
I hear a sound that seems to me
Like digging in the snow.
She will not have to lay away
The baby from her knees—
The wild birds sung his lullaby
Last summer in the trees;
The cedars and the cypresses,
That in the churchyard grow—
But little Alice will be left—
How shall we make her know,
The baby from her knees—
The wild birds sung his lullaby
Last summer in the trees;
The cedars and the cypresses,
That in the churchyard grow—
But little Alice will be left—
How shall we make her know,
When she shall see the pallid brow,
The shroud about the dead,
That the beloved one is in
The azure overhead?
For scarcely by the open grave,
Have we of larger light
And clearer faith, the strength to shape
The spirit's upward flight.
The shroud about the dead,
That the beloved one is in
The azure overhead?
For scarcely by the open grave,
Have we of larger light
And clearer faith, the strength to shape
The spirit's upward flight.
| [Poems by Cary in] The poems of Alice and Phoebe Cary | |