 | [Poems by Cary in] The poems of Alice and Phoebe Cary |  |
PROPHECY.
I think thou lovest me—yet a prophet said
To-day, Elhadra, if thou laidest dead,
From thy white forehead would he fold the shroud,
And crown thee with his kisses. Nay, not so—
The love that to thy living presence bowed,
When death shall claim thee will be quick to go.
Shall the wood fall to ashes, and the flame,
Feeding on nothing, live and burn the same?
To-day, Elhadra, if thou laidest dead,
From thy white forehead would he fold the shroud,
And crown thee with his kisses. Nay, not so—
The love that to thy living presence bowed,
When death shall claim thee will be quick to go.
Shall the wood fall to ashes, and the flame,
Feeding on nothing, live and burn the same?
So, with my large faith unto gloom allied,
Sprang up a shadow sunshine could not quell,
And the voice said, Would'st haste to go outside
This continent of being, it were well—
Where finite, growing toward the Infinite,
Its robe of glory gathers out of dust,
And, looking down the radiances white,
Sees all God's purposes about us, just.
Sprang up a shadow sunshine could not quell,
And the voice said, Would'st haste to go outside
This continent of being, it were well—
Where finite, growing toward the Infinite,
Its robe of glory gathers out of dust,
And, looking down the radiances white,
Sees all God's purposes about us, just.
Canst thou, Elhadra, reach out of the grave,
And draw the golden waters of love's well?
His years are chrisms of brightness in time's wave—
Thine are as dewdrops in the nightshade's bell!
And draw the golden waters of love's well?
His years are chrisms of brightness in time's wave—
Thine are as dewdrops in the nightshade's bell!
Then straightening in my hands the rippled length
Of all my tresses, slowly, one by one,
I took the flowers out. Dear one, in thy strength
Pray for my weakness. Thou hast seen the sun,
Large in the setting, drive a column of light,
Down through the darkness; so, within death's night,
Oh, my beloved! when I shall have gone,
If it might be so, would my love burn on.
Of all my tresses, slowly, one by one,
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Pray for my weakness. Thou hast seen the sun,
Large in the setting, drive a column of light,
Down through the darkness; so, within death's night,
Oh, my beloved! when I shall have gone,
If it might be so, would my love burn on.
| [Poems by Cary in] The poems of Alice and Phoebe Cary | |