 | [Poems by Cary in] The Poetical Works Of Alice and Phoebe Cary |  |
209
CONTRADICTION.
I love the deep quiet—all buried in leaves,
To sit the day long just as idle as air,
Till the spider grows tame at my elbow, and weaves,
And toadstools come up in a row round my chair.
To sit the day long just as idle as air,
Till the spider grows tame at my elbow, and weaves,
And toadstools come up in a row round my chair.
I love the new furrows—the cones of the pine,
The grasshopper's chirp, and the hum of the mote;
And short pasture-grass where the clover-blooms shine
Like red buttons set on a holiday coat.
The grasshopper's chirp, and the hum of the mote;
And short pasture-grass where the clover-blooms shine
Like red buttons set on a holiday coat.
Flocks packed in the hollows—the droning of bees,
The stubble so brittle—the damp and flat fen;
Old homesteads I love, in their clusters of trees,
And children and books, but not women nor men.
The stubble so brittle—the damp and flat fen;
Old homesteads I love, in their clusters of trees,
And children and books, but not women nor men.
Yet, strange contradiction! I live in the sound
Of a sea-girdled city—'t is thus that it fell,
And years, oh, how many! have gone since I bound
A sheaf for the harvest, or drank at a well.
Of a sea-girdled city—'t is thus that it fell,
And years, oh, how many! have gone since I bound
A sheaf for the harvest, or drank at a well.
And if, kindly reader, one moment you wait
To measure the poor little niche that you fill,
I think you will own it is custom or fate
That has made you the creature you are, not your will.
To measure the poor little niche that you fill,
I think you will own it is custom or fate
That has made you the creature you are, not your will.
| [Poems by Cary in] The Poetical Works Of Alice and Phoebe Cary | |