 | [Poems by Cary in] The Poetical Works Of Alice and Phoebe Cary |  |
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A MEMORIAL OF ALICE AND PHŒBE CARY.
OUR HOMESTEAD.
Our old brown homestead reared its walls
From the wayside dust aloof,
Where the apple-boughs could almost cast
Their fruit upon its roof;
And the cherry-tree so near it grew
That, when awake I've lain
In the lonesome nights, I've heard the limbs
As they creaked against the pane;
And those orchard trees! oh, those orchard trees!
I've seen my little brothers rocked
In their tops by the summer breeze.
From the wayside dust aloof,
Where the apple-boughs could almost cast
Their fruit upon its roof;
And the cherry-tree so near it grew
That, when awake I've lain
In the lonesome nights, I've heard the limbs
As they creaked against the pane;
And those orchard trees! oh, those orchard trees!
I've seen my little brothers rocked
In their tops by the summer breeze.
The sweet-brier under the window-sill,
Which the early birds made glad,
And the damask rose by the garden fence,
Were all the flowers we had.
I've looked at many a flower since then,
Exotics rich and rare,
That to other eyes were lovelier,
But not to me so fair;
For those roses bright! oh, those roses bright!
I have twined them in my sister's locks
That are hid in the dust from sight.
Which the early birds made glad,
And the damask rose by the garden fence,
Were all the flowers we had.
I've looked at many a flower since then,
Exotics rich and rare,
That to other eyes were lovelier,
But not to me so fair;
For those roses bright! oh, those roses bright!
I have twined them in my sister's locks
That are hid in the dust from sight.
We had a well—a deep, old well,
Where the spring was never dry,
And the cool drops down from the mossy stones
Were falling constantly:
And there never was water half so sweet
As the draught which filled my cup.
Drawn up to the curb by the rude, old sweep,
That my father's hand set up;
And that deep, old well! oh, that deep, old well!
I remember now the plashing sound
Of the bucket as it fell.
Where the spring was never dry,
And the cool drops down from the mossy stones
Were falling constantly:
And there never was water half so sweet
As the draught which filled my cup.
Drawn up to the curb by the rude, old sweep,
That my father's hand set up;
And that deep, old well! oh, that deep, old well!
I remember now the plashing sound
Of the bucket as it fell.
Our homestead had an ample hearth,
Where at night we loved to meet;
There my mother's voice was always kind,
And her smile was always sweet;
And there I've sat on my father's knee,
And watched his thoughtful brow,
With my childish hand in his raven hair—
That hair is silver, now!
But that broad hearth's light! oh, that broad hearth's light!
And my father's look, and my mother's smile,
They are in my heart, to-night!
Where at night we loved to meet;
There my mother's voice was always kind,
And her smile was always sweet;
And there I've sat on my father's knee,
And watched his thoughtful brow,
With my childish hand in his raven hair—
That hair is silver, now!
But that broad hearth's light! oh, that broad hearth's light!
And my father's look, and my mother's smile,
They are in my heart, to-night!
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MY LITTLE ONE.
At busy morn—at quiet noon—
At evening sad and still,
As wayward as the lawless mist
That wanders where it will,
She comes—my little one.
At evening sad and still,
As wayward as the lawless mist
That wanders where it will,
She comes—my little one.
I cannot have a dream so wrought
Of nothings, nor so wild
With fantasies, but she is there,
My heavenly-human child—
My glad, gay little one.
Of nothings, nor so wild
With fantasies, but she is there,
My heavenly-human child—
My glad, gay little one.
She never spake a single word
Of wisdom, I agree;
I loved her not for what she was,
But what she was to me—
My precious little one.
Of wisdom, I agree;
I loved her not for what she was,
But what she was to me—
My precious little one.
You might not call her beautiful,
Nor haply was she so;
I loved her for the loveliness
That I alone could know—
My sweet-souled little one.
Nor haply was she so;
I loved her for the loveliness
That I alone could know—
My sweet-souled little one.
I say I loved, but that is wrong;
As if the love could change
Because my dove hath got her wings,
And taken wider range!
Forgive, my little one.
As if the love could change
Because my dove hath got her wings,
And taken wider range!
Forgive, my little one.
I still can see her shining curls
All tremulously fair,
Like fifty yellow butterflies
A-fluttering in the air:
My angel little one.
All tremulously fair,
Like fifty yellow butterflies
A-fluttering in the air:
My angel little one.
I see her tender mouth, her eyes,
Her garment softly bright,
Like some fair cloud about the morn
Will roses all a-light:
My deathless little one.
Her garment softly bright,
Like some fair cloud about the morn
Will roses all a-light:
My deathless little one.
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[Laugh, you who never had]
“Laugh, you who never hadYour dead come back; but do not take from me
The harmless comfort of my foolish dream:
That these our mortal eyes,
Which outwardly reflect the earth and skies,
Do introvert upon eternity;
And that the shapes you deem
Imaginations just as clearly fall,
Each from its own divine original,
And through some subtle element of light,
Upon the inward spiritual eye,
As do the things which round about them lie,
Gross and material, on the external sight.”
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[Oh for a single hour]
“Oh for a single hourTo have life's knot of evil and self-blame
All straightened, all undone!
As in the time when fancy had the power
The weariest and forlornest day to bless,
At sight of any little common flower,
That warmed her pallid fingers in the sun,
And had no garment but her loveliness.”
[I thank Thee that my childhood's vanished days]
“I thank Thee that my childhood's vanished days
Were cast in rural ways,
Where I beheld, with gladness ever new,
That sort of vagrant dew
Which lodges in the beggarly tents of such
Vile weeds as virtuous plants disdain to touch,
And with rough-bearded burs, night after night,
Upgathered by the morning, tender and true,
Into her clear, chaste light.
Were cast in rural ways,
Where I beheld, with gladness ever new,
That sort of vagrant dew
Which lodges in the beggarly tents of such
Vile weeds as virtuous plants disdain to touch,
And with rough-bearded burs, night after night,
Upgathered by the morning, tender and true,
Into her clear, chaste light.
“Such ways I learned to know
That free will cannot go
Outside of mercy; learned to bless his name
Whose revelations, ever thus renewed
Along the varied year, in field and wood,
His loving care proclaim.
That free will cannot go
Outside of mercy; learned to bless his name
Whose revelations, ever thus renewed
Along the varied year, in field and wood,
His loving care proclaim.
“I thank Thee that the grass and the red rose
Do what they can to tell
How spirit through all forms of matter flows;
For every thistle by the common way,
Wearing its homely beauty; for each spring
That, sweet and homeless, runneth where it will;
For night and day;
For the alternate seasons,—everything
Pertaining to life's marvelous miracle.”
Do what they can to tell
How spirit through all forms of matter flows;
For every thistle by the common way,
Wearing its homely beauty; for each spring
That, sweet and homeless, runneth where it will;
For night and day;
For the alternate seasons,—everything
Pertaining to life's marvelous miracle.”
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[Do you hear the wild birds calling]
“Do you hear the wild birds calling?
Do you hear them, O my heart?
Do you see the blue air falling
From their rushing wings apart?
Do you hear them, O my heart?
Do you see the blue air falling
From their rushing wings apart?
“With young mosses they are flocking,
For they hear the laughing breeze
With dewy fingers rocking
Their light cradles in the trees!”
For they hear the laughing breeze
With dewy fingers rocking
Their light cradles in the trees!”
[Very pale lies Annie Clayville]
Very pale lies Annie Clayville,
Still her forehead, shadow-crowned,
And the watchers hear her saying,
As they softly tread around—
“Go out, reapers! for the hill-tops
Twinkle with the summer's heat;
Lay out your swinging cradles,
Golden furrows of ripe wheat!
While the little laughing children,
Lightly mingling work with play,
From between the long green winrows
Glean the sweetly-scented hay,
Let your sickles shine like sunbeams
In the silvery flowing rye;
Ears grow heavy in the corn fields
That will claim you by and by.
Go out, reapers, with your sickles,
Gather home the harvest store!
Little gleaners, laughing gleaners,
I shall go with you no more!”
Still her forehead, shadow-crowned,
And the watchers hear her saying,
As they softly tread around—
“Go out, reapers! for the hill-tops
Twinkle with the summer's heat;
Lay out your swinging cradles,
Golden furrows of ripe wheat!
While the little laughing children,
Lightly mingling work with play,
From between the long green winrows
Glean the sweetly-scented hay,
Let your sickles shine like sunbeams
In the silvery flowing rye;
Ears grow heavy in the corn fields
That will claim you by and by.
Go out, reapers, with your sickles,
Gather home the harvest store!
Little gleaners, laughing gleaners,
I shall go with you no more!”
Round the red moon of October,
White and cold, the eve stars climb;
Birds are gone, and flowers are dying—
'T is a lonesome, lonesome time!
Yellow leaves along the woodland
Surge to drift; the elm-bought sways,
Creaking at the homestead window,
All the weary nights and ays;
Dismally the rain is falling,
Very dismally and cold!
Close within the village grave-yard,
By a heap of freshest ground,
With a simple, nameless head-stone,
Lies a low and narrow mound;
And the brow of Annie Clayville
Is no longer shadow-crowned.
Rest thee, lost one! rest thee calmly,
Glad to go where pain is o'er;
Where they say not, through the night-time.
“I am weary!” any more.
White and cold, the eve stars climb;
Birds are gone, and flowers are dying—
'T is a lonesome, lonesome time!
Yellow leaves along the woodland
Surge to drift; the elm-bought sways,
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All the weary nights and ays;
Dismally the rain is falling,
Very dismally and cold!
Close within the village grave-yard,
By a heap of freshest ground,
With a simple, nameless head-stone,
Lies a low and narrow mound;
And the brow of Annie Clayville
Is no longer shadow-crowned.
Rest thee, lost one! rest thee calmly,
Glad to go where pain is o'er;
Where they say not, through the night-time.
“I am weary!” any more.
[My little bird of the air]
My little bird of the air,
If thou dost know, then tell me the sweet reason
Thou comest alway, duly in thy season,
To build and pair.
For still we hear thee twittering round the eaves,
Ere yet the attentive cloud of April lowers,
Up from their darkened heath to call the flowers,
Where, all the rough, hard weather,
They kept together,
Under their low brown roof of withered leaves.
If thou dost know, then tell me the sweet reason
Thou comest alway, duly in thy season,
To build and pair.
For still we hear thee twittering round the eaves,
Ere yet the attentive cloud of April lowers,
Up from their darkened heath to call the flowers,
Where, all the rough, hard weather,
They kept together,
Under their low brown roof of withered leaves.
And for a moment still
Thy ever-tuneful bill,
And tell me, and I pray thee tell me true,
If any cruel care thy bosom frets,
The while thou flittest ploughlike through the air—
Thy wings so swift and slim,
Turned downward, darkly dim,
Like furrows on a ground of violets.
Thy ever-tuneful bill,
And tell me, and I pray thee tell me true,
If any cruel care thy bosom frets,
The while thou flittest ploughlike through the air—
Thy wings so swift and slim,
Turned downward, darkly dim,
Like furrows on a ground of violets.
Nay, tell me not, my swallow,
But have thy pretty way,
And prosperously follow
The leading of the sunshine all the day.
Thy virtuous example
Maketh my foolish questions answer ample—
But have thy pretty way,
And prosperously follow
The leading of the sunshine all the day.
Thy virtuous example
Maketh my foolish questions answer ample—
It is thy large delights keeps open wide
Thy little mouth; thou hast no pain to hide;
And when thou leavest all the green-topped woods
Pining below, and with melodious floods
Flatterest the heavy clouds, it is, I know,
Because, my bird, thou canst not choose but go
Higher and ever higher
Into the purple fire
That lights the morning meadows with heart's-ease,
And sticks the hill-sides full of primroses.
Thy little mouth; thou hast no pain to hide;
And when thou leavest all the green-topped woods
Pining below, and with melodious floods
Flatterest the heavy clouds, it is, I know,
Because, my bird, thou canst not choose but go
Higher and ever higher
Into the purple fire
That lights the morning meadows with heart's-ease,
And sticks the hill-sides full of primroses.
But tell me, my good bird,
If thou canst tune thy tongue to any word,
Wherewith to answer—pray thee tell me this:
Where gottest thou thy song,
Still thrilling all day long,
Silvered to fragments by its very bliss!
Not, as I guess,
Of any whistling swain,
With cheek as richly russet as the grain
Sown in his furrows; nor, I further guess,
Of any shepherdess,
Whose tender heart did drag
Through the dim hollows of her golden flag
After a faithless love—while far and near,
The waterfalls, to hear,
Clung by their white arms to the cold, deaf rocks,
And all the unkempt flocks
Strayed idly. Nay, I know,
If ever any love-lorn maid did blow
Of such a pitiful pipe, thou didst not get
In such sad wise thy heart to music set.
If thou canst tune thy tongue to any word,
Wherewith to answer—pray thee tell me this:
Where gottest thou thy song,
Still thrilling all day long,
Silvered to fragments by its very bliss!
Not, as I guess,
Of any whistling swain,
With cheek as richly russet as the grain
Sown in his furrows; nor, I further guess,
Of any shepherdess,
Whose tender heart did drag
Through the dim hollows of her golden flag
After a faithless love—while far and near,
The waterfalls, to hear,
Clung by their white arms to the cold, deaf rocks,
And all the unkempt flocks
Strayed idly. Nay, I know,
If ever any love-lorn maid did blow
Of such a pitiful pipe, thou didst not get
In such sad wise thy heart to music set.
So, lower not down to me
From its high home thy ever-busy wing;
I know right well thy song was shaped for thee
By His unwearying power
Who makes the days about the Easter flower
Like gardens round the chamber of a king.
And whether, when the sobering year hath run
His brief course out, and thou away dost hie
To find thy pleasant summer company;
Or whether, my brown darling of the sun,
When first the South, to welcome up the May,
Hangs wide her saffron gate,
And thou, from the uprising of the day
Till eventide in shadow round thee closes,
Pourest thy joyance over field and wood,
As if thy very blood
Were drawn from out the young hearts of the roses—
From its high home thy ever-busy wing;
I know right well thy song was shaped for thee
By His unwearying power
Who makes the days about the Easter flower
Like gardens round the chamber of a king.
And whether, when the sobering year hath run
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To find thy pleasant summer company;
Or whether, my brown darling of the sun,
When first the South, to welcome up the May,
Hangs wide her saffron gate,
And thou, from the uprising of the day
Till eventide in shadow round thee closes,
Pourest thy joyance over field and wood,
As if thy very blood
Were drawn from out the young hearts of the roses—
'Tis all to celebrate,
And all to praise
The careful kindness of His gracious ways
Who builds the golden weather
So tenderly about thy houseless brood—
Thy unfledged, homeless brood, and thee together.
And all to praise
The careful kindness of His gracious ways
Who builds the golden weather
So tenderly about thy houseless brood—
Thy unfledged, homeless brood, and thee together.
Ah! these are the sweet reasons,
My little swimmer of the seas of air,
Thou comest, goest, duly in thy season;
And furthermore, that all men everywhere
May learn from thy enjoyment
That that which maketh life most good and fair
Is heavenly employment.
My little swimmer of the seas of air,
Thou comest, goest, duly in thy season;
And furthermore, that all men everywhere
May learn from thy enjoyment
That that which maketh life most good and fair
Is heavenly employment.
CRADLE SONG.
All the air is white with snowing,
Cold and white—cold and white;
Wide and wild the winds are blowing,
Blowing, blowing wide and wild.
Sweet little child, sweet little child,
Sleep, sleep, sleep little child:
Earth is dark, but heaven is bright—
Sleep, sleep till the morning light;
Some must watch, the some must weep,
And some, little baby, some may sleep:
So, good-night, sleep till light;
Lullaby, lullaby, and good-night!
Cold and white—cold and white;
Wide and wild the winds are blowing,
Blowing, blowing wide and wild.
Sweet little child, sweet little child,
Sleep, sleep, sleep little child:
Earth is dark, but heaven is bright—
Sleep, sleep till the morning light;
Some must watch, the some must weep,
And some, little baby, some may sleep:
So, good-night, sleep till light;
Lullaby, lullaby, and good-night!
Folded hands on the baby bosom,
Cheek and mouth rose-red, rose-sweet;
And like a bee's wing in a blossom,
Beat, beat, beat and beat,
So the heart keeps going, going,
While the winds in the bitter snowing
Meet and cross—cross and meet—
Heaping high, with many an eddy,
Bars of stainless chalcedony
All in curves about the door,
Where shall fall no more, no more,
Longed-for steps, so light, so light.
Little one, sleep till the moon is low,
Sleep, and rock, and take your rest;
Winter clouds will snow and snow,
And the winds blow east, and the winds blow west
Some must come, and some must go,
And the earth be dark, and the heavens be bright:
Never fear, baby dear,
Wrong things lose themselves in right;
Never fear, mother is here,
Lullaby, lullaby, and good-night.
Cheek and mouth rose-red, rose-sweet;
And like a bee's wing in a blossom,
Beat, beat, beat and beat,
So the heart keeps going, going,
While the winds in the bitter snowing
Meet and cross—cross and meet—
Heaping high, with many an eddy,
Bars of stainless chalcedony
All in curves about the door,
Where shall fall no more, no more,
Longed-for steps, so light, so light.
Little one, sleep till the moon is low,
Sleep, and rock, and take your rest;
Winter clouds will snow and snow,
And the winds blow east, and the winds blow west
Some must come, and some must go,
And the earth be dark, and the heavens be bright:
Never fear, baby dear,
Wrong things lose themselves in right;
Never fear, mother is here,
Lullaby, lullaby, and good-night.
O good saint, that thus emboldenest
Eyes bereaved to see, to-night,
Cheek the rosiest, hair the goldenest,
Ever gladdened the mother sight.
Blessed art thou to hide the willow,
Waiting and weeping over the dead,
With the softest, silkenest pillow
Ever illumined hair o'erspread.
Never had cradle such a cover;
All my house with light it fills;
Over and under, under and over,
'Broidered leaves of the daffodils!
All away from the winter weather,
Baby, wrapt in your 'broideries bright,
Sleep, nor watch any more for father—
Father will not come home to-night.
Angels now are round about him,
In the heavenly home on high;
We must learn to do without him—
Some must live, and some must die.
Baby, sweetest ever was born,
Shut little blue eyes, sleep till morn:
Rock and sleep, and wait for the light,
Father will not come home to-night.
Winter is wild, but winter closes;
The snow in the nest of the bird will lie,
And the bird must have its little cry;
Yet the saddest day doth swiftly run,
Up o'er the black cloud shines the sun,
And when the reign of the frost is done
The May will come with roses, roses—
Green-leaved grass, and red-leaved roses—
Roses, roses, roses, roses,
Roses red, and lilies white.
Sleep little baby, sleep, sleep;
Some must watch, and some must weep;
Sweetly sleep till the morning light,
Lullaby, lullaby, and good-night.
Eyes bereaved to see, to-night,
Cheek the rosiest, hair the goldenest,
Ever gladdened the mother sight.
Blessed art thou to hide the willow,
Waiting and weeping over the dead,
With the softest, silkenest pillow
Ever illumined hair o'erspread.
Never had cradle such a cover;
All my house with light it fills;
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'Broidered leaves of the daffodils!
All away from the winter weather,
Baby, wrapt in your 'broideries bright,
Sleep, nor watch any more for father—
Father will not come home to-night.
Angels now are round about him,
In the heavenly home on high;
We must learn to do without him—
Some must live, and some must die.
Baby, sweetest ever was born,
Shut little blue eyes, sleep till morn:
Rock and sleep, and wait for the light,
Father will not come home to-night.
Winter is wild, but winter closes;
The snow in the nest of the bird will lie,
And the bird must have its little cry;
Yet the saddest day doth swiftly run,
Up o'er the black cloud shines the sun,
And when the reign of the frost is done
The May will come with roses, roses—
Green-leaved grass, and red-leaved roses—
Roses, roses, roses, roses,
Roses red, and lilies white.
Sleep little baby, sleep, sleep;
Some must watch, and some must weep;
Sweetly sleep till the morning light,
Lullaby, lullaby, and good-night.
[Give me to see, though only in a dream]
Give me to see, though only in a dream,
Though only in an unsubstantial dream,
The dear old cradle lined with leaves of moss,
And daily changed from cradle into cross,
What time athwart its dull brown wood, a beam
Slid from the gold deeps of the sunset shore,
Making the blur of twilight white and fair,
Like lilies quivering in the summer air;
And my low pillow like a rose full-blown.
Oh, give mine eyes to see once more, once more.
My longing eyes to see this one time more,
The shadows trembling with the wings of bats,
And dandelions dragging to the door,
And speckling all the grass about the door,
With the thick spreading of their starry mats.
Though only in an unsubstantial dream,
The dear old cradle lined with leaves of moss,
And daily changed from cradle into cross,
What time athwart its dull brown wood, a beam
Slid from the gold deeps of the sunset shore,
Making the blur of twilight white and fair,
Like lilies quivering in the summer air;
And my low pillow like a rose full-blown.
Oh, give mine eyes to see once more, once more.
My longing eyes to see this one time more,
The shadows trembling with the wings of bats,
And dandelions dragging to the door,
And speckling all the grass about the door,
With the thick spreading of their starry mats.
Give me to see, I pray and can but pray,
Oh, give me but to see to-day, to-day,
The little brown-walled house where I was born;
The gray old barn, the cattle-shed close by,
The well-sweep, with its angle sharp and high;
The flax field, like a patch of fallen sky;
The millet harvest, colored like the corn,
Like to the ripe ears of the new husked corn.
Oh, give me but to see to-day, to-day,
The little brown-walled house where I was born;
The gray old barn, the cattle-shed close by,
The well-sweep, with its angle sharp and high;
The flax field, like a patch of fallen sky;
The millet harvest, colored like the corn,
Like to the ripe ears of the new husked corn.
And give mine eyes to see among the rest
This rustic picture, in among the rest,
For there and only there it doth belong,
I, at fourteen, and in my Sunday best,
Reading with voice unsteady my first song,
The rugged verses of my first rude song.
This rustic picture, in among the rest,
For there and only there it doth belong,
I, at fourteen, and in my Sunday best,
Reading with voice unsteady my first song,
The rugged verses of my first rude song.
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[Here, and not here]
Here, and not here!
When following care about my house I tread
Sadly, and all so slowly,
There often seemeth to be round me spread
A blessed light, as if the place were holy;
And then thou art near.
When following care about my house I tread
Sadly, and all so slowly,
There often seemeth to be round me spread
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And then thou art near.
Lost, and not lost!
When silence taketh in the night her place,
And I my soul deliver
All to sweet dreaming of thy sovereign grace,
I see the green hills on beyond the river
Thy feet have crossed.
When silence taketh in the night her place,
And I my soul deliver
All to sweet dreaming of thy sovereign grace,
I see the green hills on beyond the river
Thy feet have crossed.
And so, my friend,
I have and hold thee all the while I wait,
Musing and melancholy;
And so these songs to thee I dedicate,
Whose song shall flow henceforth serene and holy,
Life without end.
I have and hold thee all the while I wait,
Musing and melancholy;
And so these songs to thee I dedicate,
Whose song shall flow henceforth serene and holy,
Life without end.
For dear, dear one,
Even as a traveler, doomed alone to go
Through some wild wintry valley,
Takes in his poor, rude hand the wayside snow
And shapes it to the likeness of a lily,
So have I done;
Even as a traveler, doomed alone to go
Through some wild wintry valley,
Takes in his poor, rude hand the wayside snow
And shapes it to the likeness of a lily,
So have I done;
That while I wove
Lays that to men's minds haply might recall
Some bower of bliss unsaddened,
Moulding and modulating one and all
Upon thy life, so many lives that gladdened
With light and love.
Lays that to men's minds haply might recall
Some bower of bliss unsaddened,
Moulding and modulating one and all
Upon thy life, so many lives that gladdened
With light and love.
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[Low lying in her pallid pain]
“Low lying in her pallid pain,
A flower that thirsts and dies for rain,
I see her night and day:
And every heart-beat is a cry,
And every breath I breathe a sigh—
Oh, for the May, the May!
A flower that thirsts and dies for rain,
I see her night and day:
And every heart-beat is a cry,
And every breath I breathe a sigh—
Oh, for the May, the May!
“All the dreaming is broken through;
Both what is done and undone I rue.
Nothing is steadfast and nothing true,
But your love for me and my love for you,
My dearest, dear little heart.
Both what is done and undone I rue.
Nothing is steadfast and nothing true,
But your love for me and my love for you,
My dearest, dear little heart.
“The time is weary, the year is old,
The light o' the lily burns close to the mould;
The grave is cruel, the grave is cold,
But the other side is the city of gold,
My dearest, dear little heart.”
The light o' the lily burns close to the mould;
The grave is cruel, the grave is cold,
But the other side is the city of gold,
My dearest, dear little heart.”
54
[Therefore I pray, and can but pray]
“Therefore I pray, and can but pray,
Lord, keep and bring them back when May
Shall come, with shining train,
Thick 'broiderèd with leaves of wheat,
And butterflies, and field-pinks sweet,
And yellow bees, and rain.
Lord, keep and bring them back when May
Shall come, with shining train,
Thick 'broiderèd with leaves of wheat,
And butterflies, and field-pinks sweet,
And yellow bees, and rain.
“Yea, bring them back across the seas
In clouds of golden witnesses—
The grand, the grave, the gay;
And if thy holy will it be,
Keep me alive, once more to see
The glad and glorious day.”
In clouds of golden witnesses—
The grand, the grave, the gay;
55
Keep me alive, once more to see
The glad and glorious day.”
[As the poor panting hart to the water-brooks runs]
“‘As the poor panting hart to the water-brook runs,As the water-brook runs to the sea,
So earth's fainting daughters and famishing sons,
O Fountain of Love, run to Thee!’
58
[My soul is full of whispered song]
“‘My soul is full of whispered song,My blindness is my sight;
The shadows that I feared so long
Are all alive with light.’
| [Poems by Cary in] The Poetical Works Of Alice and Phoebe Cary | |