 | [Poems by Cary in] The Poetical Works Of Alice and Phoebe Cary |  |
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POEMS OF LOVE.
THE BRIDAL VEIL.
We're married, they say, and you think you have won me,—
Well, take this white veil from my head, and look on me;
Here 's matter to vex you, and matter to grieve you.
Here 's doubt to distrust you, and faith to believe you.—
I am all as you see, common earth, common dew:
Be wary, and mould me to roses, not rue!
Well, take this white veil from my head, and look on me;
Here 's matter to vex you, and matter to grieve you.
Here 's doubt to distrust you, and faith to believe you.—
I am all as you see, common earth, common dew:
Be wary, and mould me to roses, not rue!
Ah! shake out the filmy thing, fold after fold.
And see if you have me to keep and to hold,—
Look close on my heart—see the worst of its sinning,—
It is not yours to-day for the yesterday's winning—
The past is not mine—I am too proud to borrow—
You must grow to new heights if I love you to-morrow.
And see if you have me to keep and to hold,—
Look close on my heart—see the worst of its sinning,—
It is not yours to-day for the yesterday's winning—
The past is not mine—I am too proud to borrow—
You must grow to new heights if I love you to-morrow.
We 're married! I'm plighted to hold up your praises,
As the turf at your feet does its handful of daisies;
That way lies my honor,—my pathway of pride,
But, mark you, if greener grass grow either side,
I shall know it, and keeping in body with you.
Shall walk in my spirit with feet on the dew!
As the turf at your feet does its handful of daisies;
That way lies my honor,—my pathway of pride,
But, mark you, if greener grass grow either side,
I shall know it, and keeping in body with you.
Shall walk in my spirit with feet on the dew!
We 're married! Oh, pray that our love do not fail!
I have wings flattened down and hid under my veil:
They are subtle as light—you can never undo them,
And swift in their flight—you can never pursue them,
And spite of all clasping, and spite of all bands,
I can slip like a shadow, a dream, from your hands.
I have wings flattened down and hid under my veil:
They are subtle as light—you can never undo them,
And swift in their flight—you can never pursue them,
And spite of all clasping, and spite of all bands,
I can slip like a shadow, a dream, from your hands.
Nay, call me not cruel, and fear not to take me,
I am yours for my life-time, to be what you make me,—
To wear my white veil for a sign, or a cover,
As you shall be proven my lord, or my lover;
A cover for peace that is dead, or a token
Of bliss that can never be written or spoken.
I am yours for my life-time, to be what you make me,—
To wear my white veil for a sign, or a cover,
As you shall be proven my lord, or my lover;
A cover for peace that is dead, or a token
Of bliss that can never be written or spoken.
PITILESS FATE.
I saw in my dream a wonderful stream,
And over the stream was a bridge so slender,
And over the white there was scarlet light,
And over the scarlet a golden splendor.
And over the stream was a bridge so slender,
And over the white there was scarlet light,
And over the scarlet a golden splendor.
And beyond the bridge was a goodly ridge
Where bees made honey and corn was growing,
And down that way through the gold and gray
A gay young man in a boat was rowing.
Where bees made honey and corn was growing,
And down that way through the gold and gray
A gay young man in a boat was rowing.
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I could see from the shore that a rose he wore
Stuck in his button-hole, rare as the rarest,
And singing a song and rowing along,
I guessed his face to be fair as the fairest.
Stuck in his button-hole, rare as the rarest,
And singing a song and rowing along,
I guessed his face to be fair as the fairest.
And all by the corn where the bees at morn
Made combs of honey—with breathing bated.
I saw by the stream (it was only a dream)
A lovely lady that watched and waited.
Made combs of honey—with breathing bated.
I saw by the stream (it was only a dream)
A lovely lady that watched and waited.
There were fair green leaves in her silken sleeves,
And loose her locks in the winds were blowing,
And she kissed to land with her milk-white hand
The gay young man in the boat a-rowing.
And loose her locks in the winds were blowing,
And she kissed to land with her milk-white hand
The gay young man in the boat a-rowing.
And all so light in her apron white
She caught the little red rose he cast her,
And, “Haste!” she cried, with her arms so wide,
“Haste, sweetheart, haste!” but the boat was past her.
She caught the little red rose he cast her,
And, “Haste!” she cried, with her arms so wide,
“Haste, sweetheart, haste!” but the boat was past her.
And the gray so cold ran over the gold,
And she sighed with only the winds to hear her—
“He loves me still, and he rowed with a will,
But pitiless Fate, not he, was steerer!”
And she sighed with only the winds to hear her—
“He loves me still, and he rowed with a will,
But pitiless Fate, not he, was steerer!”
And there till the morn blushed over the corn.
And over the bees in their sweet combs humming,
Her locks with the dew drenched through and through
She watched and waited for her false love's coming!
And over the bees in their sweet combs humming,
Her locks with the dew drenched through and through
She watched and waited for her false love's coming!
But the maid to-day who reads my lay
May keep her young heart light as a feather—
It was only a dream, the bridge and the stream,
And lady and lover, and all together.
May keep her young heart light as a feather—
It was only a dream, the bridge and the stream,
And lady and lover, and all together.
THE LOVER'S INTERDICT.
Stop, traveler, just a moment at my gate,
And I will give you news so very sweet
That you will thank me. Where the branches meet
Across your road, and droop, as with the weight
Of shadows laid upon them, pause, I pray,
And turn aside a little from your way.
And I will give you news so very sweet
That you will thank me. Where the branches meet
Across your road, and droop, as with the weight
Of shadows laid upon them, pause, I pray,
And turn aside a little from your way.
You see the drooping branches overspread
With shadows, as I told you—look you now
To the high elm-tree with the dead white bough
Loose swinging out of joint, and there, with head
Tricked out with scarlet, pouring his wild lay,
You see a blackbird: turn your step that way.
With shadows, as I told you—look you now
To the high elm-tree with the dead white bough
Loose swinging out of joint, and there, with head
Tricked out with scarlet, pouring his wild lay,
You see a blackbird: turn your step that way.
Holding along the honeysuckle hedge,
Make for the meadows lying down so low;
Ah! now I need not say that you must go
No farther than that little silver wedge
Of daisy-land, pushed inward by the flood
Betwixt the hills—you could not, if you would.
Make for the meadows lying down so low;
Ah! now I need not say that you must go
No farther than that little silver wedge
Of daisy-land, pushed inward by the flood
Betwixt the hills—you could not, if you would.
For you will see there, as the sun goes down,
And freckles all the daisy leaves with gold,
A little maiden, in their evening fold
Penning two lambs—her soft, fawn-colored gown
Tucked over hems of violet, by a hand
Dainty as any lady's in the land.
And freckles all the daisy leaves with gold,
A little maiden, in their evening fold
Penning two lambs—her soft, fawn-colored gown
Tucked over hems of violet, by a hand
Dainty as any lady's in the land.
Such gracious light she will about her bring,
That, when the day, being wedded to the shade,
Wears the moon's circle, blushing, as the maid
Blushes to wear the unused marriage-ring,
And all the quickened clouds do fall astir
With daffodils, your thoughts will stay with her.
That, when the day, being wedded to the shade,
Wears the moon's circle, blushing, as the maid
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And all the quickened clouds do fall astir
With daffodils, your thoughts will stay with her.
No ornaments but her two sapphire eyes,
And the twin roses in her cheeks that grow,
The nice-set pearls, that make so fine a show
When that she either softly smiles or sighs,
And the long tresses, colored like a bee—
Brown, with a sunlight shimmer. You will see,
And the twin roses in her cheeks that grow,
The nice-set pearls, that make so fine a show
When that she either softly smiles or sighs,
And the long tresses, colored like a bee—
Brown, with a sunlight shimmer. You will see,
When you have ceased to watch the airy spring
Of her white feet, a fallen beech hard by,
The yellow earth about the gnarled roots dry,
And if you hide there, you will hear her sing
That song Kit Marlowe made so long ago—
“Come live with me, and be my love,” you know.
Of her white feet, a fallen beech hard by,
The yellow earth about the gnarled roots dry,
And if you hide there, you will hear her sing
That song Kit Marlowe made so long ago—
“Come live with me, and be my love,” you know.
Dear soul, you would not be at heaven's high gate
Among the larks, that constellated hour,
Nor locked alone in some green-hearted bower
Among the nightingales, being in your fate,
By fortune's sweet selection, graced above
All grace, to hear that—Come, and be my love!
Among the larks, that constellated hour,
Nor locked alone in some green-hearted bower
Among the nightingales, being in your fate,
By fortune's sweet selection, graced above
All grace, to hear that—Come, and be my love!
But when the singer singeth down the sweets
To that most maiden-like and lovely bed—
All out of soft persuasive roses spread—
You must not touch the fair and flowery sheets
Even in your thought! and from your perfect bliss
I furthermore must interdict you this:
To that most maiden-like and lovely bed—
All out of soft persuasive roses spread—
You must not touch the fair and flowery sheets
Even in your thought! and from your perfect bliss
I furthermore must interdict you this:
When all the wayward mists, because of her,
Lie in their white wings, moveless, on the air,
You must not let the loose net of her hair
Drag your heart to her! nor from hushed breath stir
Out of your sacred hiding. As you guess
She is my love—this woodland shepherdess.
Lie in their white wings, moveless, on the air,
You must not let the loose net of her hair
Drag your heart to her! nor from hushed breath stir
Out of your sacred hiding. As you guess
She is my love—this woodland shepherdess.
The cap, the clasps, the kirtle fringed along
With myrtles, as the hand of dear old Kit
Did of his cunning pleasure broider it,
To ornament that dulcet piece of song
Immortalled with refrains of—Live with me!
These to your fancy, one and all are free.
With myrtles, as the hand of dear old Kit
Did of his cunning pleasure broider it,
To ornament that dulcet piece of song
Immortalled with refrains of—Live with me!
These to your fancy, one and all are free.
But, favored traveler, ere you quit my gate,
Promise to hold it, in your mind to be
Enamored only of the melody,
Else will I pray that all yon woody weight
Of branch and shadow, as you pass along,
Crush you among the echoes of the song.
Promise to hold it, in your mind to be
Enamored only of the melody,
Else will I pray that all yon woody weight
Of branch and shadow, as you pass along,
Crush you among the echoes of the song.
SNOWED UNDER.
Come let us talk together,
While the sunset fades and dies,
And, darling, look into my heart,
And not into my eyes.
While the sunset fades and dies,
And, darling, look into my heart,
And not into my eyes.
Let us sit and talk together
In the old, familiar place,
But look deep down into my heart,
Not up into my face.
In the old, familiar place,
But look deep down into my heart,
Not up into my face.
And with tender pity shield me—
I am just a withered bough—
I was used to have your praises,
And you cannot praise me now.
I am just a withered bough—
I was used to have your praises,
And you cannot praise me now.
You would nip the blushing roses;
They were blighted long ago,
But the precious roots, my darling,
Are alive beneath the snow.
They were blighted long ago,
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Are alive beneath the snow.
And in the coming spring-time
They will all to beauty start—
Oh, look not in my face, beloved,
But only in my heart!
They will all to beauty start—
Oh, look not in my face, beloved,
But only in my heart!
You will not find the little buds,
So tender and so bright;
They are snowed so deeply under,
They will never come to light.
So tender and so bright;
They are snowed so deeply under,
They will never come to light.
So look, I pray you, in my heart,
And not into my face,
And think about that coming spring
Of greenness and of grace,
And not into my face,
And think about that coming spring
Of greenness and of grace,
When from the winter-laden bough
The weight of snow shall drop away,
And give it strength to spring into
The life of endless May.
The weight of snow shall drop away,
And give it strength to spring into
The life of endless May.
AN EMBLEM.
What is my little sweetheart like, d' you say?
A simple question, yet a hard, to answer;
But I will tell you in my stammering way
The best I can, sir.
A simple question, yet a hard, to answer;
But I will tell you in my stammering way
The best I can, sir.
When I was young—that 's neither here nor there—
I read, and reading made my eyelids glisten;
But I'll repeat the story, if you care
To stay and listen.
I read, and reading made my eyelids glisten;
But I'll repeat the story, if you care
To stay and listen.
A wild rose, born within a modest glen,
And sheltered by the leaves of thorny bushes,
Drooped, being commended to the eyes of men,
And died of blushes.
And sheltered by the leaves of thorny bushes,
Drooped, being commended to the eyes of men,
And died of blushes.
Now, if there were—and one may well suppose
There never was a flower of such rare splendor,
Much less a rudely nurtured wilding rose,
Withal so tender—
There never was a flower of such rare splendor,
Much less a rudely nurtured wilding rose,
Withal so tender—
But say there were; what is a rose the less,
When all from east to west the May is blazing,
That any tuneful bard her face should miss,
And give her praising?
When all from east to west the May is blazing,
That any tuneful bard her face should miss,
And give her praising?
Yet say there did, and that her heart did break,
As tells the romance of my early reading,
Then I that fair, fond flower for emblem take—
Sir, are you heeding?—
As tells the romance of my early reading,
Then I that fair, fond flower for emblem take—
Sir, are you heeding?—
Aye, say there were, and that she spent her days
In ignorance of her proud poetic glory;
Only her soft death making to the praise
Of her brief story:
In ignorance of her proud poetic glory;
Only her soft death making to the praise
Of her brief story:
Even such a wild, bright flower, and so apart
In her low modest house, my little maid is—
Sweet-hearted, shy, and strange to all the art
Of your fine ladies.
In her low modest house, my little maid is—
Sweet-hearted, shy, and strange to all the art
Of your fine ladies.
So tender, that to death she needs must grieve,
Stabbed by the glances of bold eyes, is certain;
Take you the emblem, then, and give me leave
To drop the curtain.
Stabbed by the glances of bold eyes, is certain;
Take you the emblem, then, and give me leave
To drop the curtain.
QUEEN OF ROSES.
My little love hath made
A garden that all sweetest sweetness holds,
And there for hours upon a piece of shade
Fringed round with marjoram and marigolds,
She lieth dreaming, on her arm of pearl,
My pretty little love—my garden-girl.
A garden that all sweetest sweetness holds,
And there for hours upon a piece of shade
Fringed round with marjoram and marigolds,
She lieth dreaming, on her arm of pearl,
My pretty little love—my garden-girl.
The walks are one and all
Enriched along their borders with wild mint,
And pinks, and gilliflowers, both large and small;
But where her little feet do leave a print,
Whether on grass or ground, it doth displace
And make of non-effect all other grace.
Enriched along their borders with wild mint,
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But where her little feet do leave a print,
Whether on grass or ground, it doth displace
And make of non-effect all other grace.
Her speech is all so fair
The winds disgraced, do from her presence run,
And when she combeth loose her heavenly hair
She giveth entertainment to the sun.
Oh, just to touch the least of all thy curls,
My golden head—my queen of garden-girls.
The winds disgraced, do from her presence run,
And when she combeth loose her heavenly hair
She giveth entertainment to the sun.
Oh, just to touch the least of all thy curls,
My golden head—my queen of garden-girls.
Her shawl-corners of snow
Like wings drop down about her when she stands
And never queen's lace made so fair a show
As that doth, knitted in her two white hands;
The while some sudden look of cold surprise
Shoots like an angry comet to her eyes.
Like wings drop down about her when she stands
And never queen's lace made so fair a show
As that doth, knitted in her two white hands;
The while some sudden look of cold surprise
Shoots like an angry comet to her eyes.
When she doth walk abroad
Her subject flowers do one and all arise;
The low ones housèd meekly in the sod
Do kiss her feet—the lofty ones, her eyes.
Oh sad for him whose seeing hath not seen
My rose of roses, and my heart's dear queen.
Her subject flowers do one and all arise;
The low ones housèd meekly in the sod
Do kiss her feet—the lofty ones, her eyes.
Oh sad for him whose seeing hath not seen
My rose of roses, and my heart's dear queen.
I'm tying all my hours
With sighs together—“Welladay! ah me!”
Because I cannot choose nor words, nor flowers,
Wherewith to lure my love to marry me!
I'll ask her what the wretched man must say
Who loves a saint, and woo her just that way.
With sighs together—“Welladay! ah me!”
Because I cannot choose nor words, nor flowers,
Wherewith to lure my love to marry me!
I'll ask her what the wretched man must say
Who loves a saint, and woo her just that way.
Else in some honeyed phrase
I'll fit a barb no clearest sight can see,
And toss it up and down all cunning ways,
Until I catch and drag her heart to me!
Ah, then I'll tease her, for my life of pain,
For she shall never have it back again.
I'll fit a barb no clearest sight can see,
And toss it up and down all cunning ways,
Until I catch and drag her heart to me!
Ah, then I'll tease her, for my life of pain,
For she shall never have it back again.
NOW AND THEN.
“Sing me a song, my nightingale,
Hid in among the twilight flowers;
And make it low,” he said, “I pray,
And make it sweet.” But she said, “Nay;
Come when the morn begins to trail
Her golden glories o'er the gray—
Morn is the time for love's all-hail!”
He said, “The morning is not ours!
Hid in among the twilight flowers;
And make it low,” he said, “I pray,
And make it sweet.” But she said, “Nay;
Come when the morn begins to trail
Her golden glories o'er the gray—
Morn is the time for love's all-hail!”
He said, “The morning is not ours!
“Then give me back, my heart's delight,
Hid in among the twilight flowers,
The kiss I gave you yesterday—
See how the moon this way has leant,
As if to yield a soft consent.
Surely,” he said, “you will requite
My love in this?” But she said, “Nay.”
“Yea, now,” he said. But she said, “Hush!
And come to me at morning-blush.”
He said, “The morning is not ours!
Hid in among the twilight flowers,
The kiss I gave you yesterday—
See how the moon this way has leant,
As if to yield a soft consent.
Surely,” he said, “you will requite
My love in this?” But she said, “Nay.”
“Yea, now,” he said. But she said, “Hush!
And come to me at morning-blush.”
He said, “The morning is not ours!
“But say, at least, you love me, love.
Hid in among the twilight flowers;
No winds are listening, far or near—
The sleepy doves will never hear.”
“Ah, leave me in my sacred glen;
And when the saffron morn shall close
Her misty arms about the rose,
Come, and my speech, my thought shall prove—
Not now,” she said; “not now, but then.”
He said, “The morning is not ours!”
Hid in among the twilight flowers;
No winds are listening, far or near—
The sleepy doves will never hear.”
“Ah, leave me in my sacred glen;
And when the saffron morn shall close
Her misty arms about the rose,
Come, and my speech, my thought shall prove—
Not now,” she said; “not now, but then.”
He said, “The morning is not ours!”
THE LADY TO THE LOVER.
Since thou wouldst have me show
In what sweet way our love appears to me,
Think of sweet ways, the sweetest that can be,
And thou may'st partly dream, but canst not know:
For out of heaven no bliss—
Disshadowed lies, like this,
Therefore similitudes thou must forego.
In what sweet way our love appears to me,
Think of sweet ways, the sweetest that can be,
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For out of heaven no bliss—
Disshadowed lies, like this,
Therefore similitudes thou must forego.
Thou seem'st myself's lost part,
That hath, in a new compact, dearer close;
And if that thou shouldst take a broken rose
And fit the leaves again about the heart,
That mended flower would be
A poor, faint sign to thee
Of how one's self about the other grows.
That hath, in a new compact, dearer close;
And if that thou shouldst take a broken rose
And fit the leaves again about the heart,
That mended flower would be
A poor, faint sign to thee
Of how one's self about the other grows.
Think of the sun and dew
Walled in some little house of leaves from sight,
Each from the other taking, giving light,
And interpenetrated through and through;
Feeding, and fed upon—
All given, and nothing gone,
And thou art still as far as day from night.
Walled in some little house of leaves from sight,
Each from the other taking, giving light,
And interpenetrated through and through;
Feeding, and fed upon—
All given, and nothing gone,
And thou art still as far as day from night.
Sweeter than honey-comb
To little hungry bees, when rude winds blow;
Brighter than wayside window-lights that glow
Through the cold rain, to one that has no home;
But out of heaven, no bliss
Disshadowed lies, like this,—
Therefore similitudes thou must forego.
To little hungry bees, when rude winds blow;
Brighter than wayside window-lights that glow
Through the cold rain, to one that has no home;
But out of heaven, no bliss
Disshadowed lies, like this,—
Therefore similitudes thou must forego.
LOVE'S SECRET SPRINGS.
In asking how I came to choose
This flower that makes my brow to shine,
You seem to say, you did not lose
Your choice, my friend, when I had mine!
And by your lifted brow, exclaim,
“What charms have charmed you? name their name!”
This flower that makes my brow to shine,
You seem to say, you did not lose
Your choice, my friend, when I had mine!
And by your lifted brow, exclaim,
“What charms have charmed you? name their name!”
Nay, pardon me—I cannot say
These are the charms, and those the powers,
And being in a trance one day,
I took her for my flower of flowers.
Love doth not flatter what he gives—
But here, sir, are some negatives.
These are the charms, and those the powers,
And being in a trance one day,
I took her for my flower of flowers.
Love doth not flatter what he gives—
But here, sir, are some negatives.
'T is not the little milk-white hands
That grace whatever work they do;
'T is not the braided silken bands
That shade the eyes of tender blue;
And not the voice so low and sweet
That holds me captive at her feet.
That grace whatever work they do;
'T is not the braided silken bands
That shade the eyes of tender blue;
And not the voice so low and sweet
That holds me captive at her feet.
'T is not in frowns, knit up with smiles,
Wherewith she scolds me for my sins,
Nor yet in tricksy ways nor wiles
That I can say true love begins!
Out of such soil it did not grow;
It was,—and that is all I know.
Wherewith she scolds me for my sins,
Nor yet in tricksy ways nor wiles
That I can say true love begins!
Out of such soil it did not grow;
It was,—and that is all I know.
'T is not her twinkling feet so small,
Nor shoulder glancing from her sleeve,
Nor yet her virtues, one nor all—
Love were not love to ask our leave;
She was not woed, nor was I won—
What draws the dew-drop to the sun?
Nor shoulder glancing from her sleeve,
Nor yet her virtues, one nor all—
Love were not love to ask our leave;
She was not woed, nor was I won—
What draws the dew-drop to the sun?
Pardon me, then, I cannot tell,—
Nor can you hope to understand,—
Why I should love my love so well;
Nor how, upon this border land,
It fell that she should go with me
Through time into eternity.
Nor can you hope to understand,—
Why I should love my love so well;
Nor how, upon this border land,
It fell that she should go with me
Through time into eternity.
AT SEA.
Brown-faced sailor, tell me true—
Our ship I fear is but illy thriving,
Some clouds are black and some are blue,
The women are huddled together below,
Above the captain treads to and fro;
Tell me, for who shall tell but you,
Whither away our ship is driving!
Our ship I fear is but illy thriving,
Some clouds are black and some are blue,
The women are huddled together below,
Above the captain treads to and fro;
Tell me, for who shall tell but you,
Whither away our ship is driving!
The wind is blowing a storm this way,
The bubbles in my face are winking—
'T is growing dark in the middle of day
And I cannot see the good green land,
Nor a ridge of rock, nor a belt of sand;
Oh, kind sailor, speak and say,
How long might a little boat be sinking?
The bubbles in my face are winking—
'T is growing dark in the middle of day
And I cannot see the good green land,
Nor a ridge of rock, nor a belt of sand;
Oh, kind sailor, speak and say,
How long might a little boat be sinking?
More saucily the bubbles wink;
God's mercy keep us from foul weather,
And from drought with nothing but brine to drink.
I dreamed of a ship with her ribs stove in,
Last night, and waking thought of my sin;
How long would a strong man swim, d' y' think,
If we were all in th' sea together?
God's mercy keep us from foul weather,
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I dreamed of a ship with her ribs stove in,
Last night, and waking thought of my sin;
How long would a strong man swim, d' y' think,
If we were all in th' sea together?
The sailor frowned a bitter frown,
And answered, “Aye, there will be foul weather,—
All men must die, and some must drown,
And there is n't water enough in the sea
To cleanse a sinner like you or me;
O Lord, the ships I 've seen go down,
Crew and captain and all together!”
And answered, “Aye, there will be foul weather,—
All men must die, and some must drown,
And there is n't water enough in the sea
To cleanse a sinner like you or me;
O Lord, the ships I 've seen go down,
Crew and captain and all together!”
The sailor smiled a smile of cheer,
And looked at me a look of wonder,
And said, as he wiped away a tear,
“Forty years I've been off the land
And God has held me safe in his hand:
He ruleth the storm—He is with us here,
And his love for us no sin can sunder.”
And looked at me a look of wonder,
And said, as he wiped away a tear,
“Forty years I've been off the land
And God has held me safe in his hand:
He ruleth the storm—He is with us here,
And his love for us no sin can sunder.”
A CONFESSION.
I know a little damsel
As light of foot as the air,
And with smile as gay
As th' sun o' th' May
And clouds of golden hair.
She sings with the larks at morning,
And sings with the doves at e'en,
And her cheeks they shine
Like a rose on the vine,
And her name is Charlamine.
To plague me and to please me
She knows a thousand arts,
And against my will
I love her still
With all my heart of hearts!
As light of foot as the air,
And with smile as gay
As th' sun o' th' May
And clouds of golden hair.
She sings with the larks at morning,
And sings with the doves at e'en,
And her cheeks they shine
Like a rose on the vine,
And her name is Charlamine.
To plague me and to please me
She knows a thousand arts,
And against my will
I love her still
With all my heart of hearts!
I know another damsel
With eyelids lowly weighed,
And so pale is she
That she seems to me
Like a blossom blown in the shade.
Her hands are white as charity,
And her voice is low and sweet,
And she runneth quick
To the sinful and sick,
And her name is Marguerite.
The broken and bowed in spirit
She maketh straight and whole,
And I sit at her knee
And she sings to me,
And I love her with my soul.
With eyelids lowly weighed,
And so pale is she
That she seems to me
Like a blossom blown in the shade.
Her hands are white as charity,
And her voice is low and sweet,
And she runneth quick
To the sinful and sick,
And her name is Marguerite.
The broken and bowed in spirit
She maketh straight and whole,
And I sit at her knee
And she sings to me,
And I love her with my soul.
I know a lofty lady,
And her name is Heleanore.
And th' king o' the sky
In her lap doth lie
When she sitteth at her door.
Her shoulder is curved like an eagle's wing
When he riseth on his way,
And my two little maids
They lay in braids
Her dark locks day by day.
Her heart in the folds of her kerchief
It doth not fall or rise,
And afar I wait
At her royal gate,
And I love her with my eyes!
And her name is Heleanore.
And th' king o' the sky
In her lap doth lie
When she sitteth at her door.
Her shoulder is curved like an eagle's wing
When he riseth on his way,
And my two little maids
They lay in braids
Her dark locks day by day.
Her heart in the folds of her kerchief
It doth not fall or rise,
And afar I wait
At her royal gate,
And I love her with my eyes!
Now you that are wise in love-lore,
Come teach your arts to me,
For each of the darling damsels
Is as sweet as she can be!
And if I wed with Charlamine
Of the airy little feet.
I shall sicken and sigh,
I shall droop and die,
For my gentle Marguerite!
And if I wed with Marguerite,
Whom I so much adore,
I shall long to go
From her hand of snow
To my Lady Heleanore!
And if I wed with Heleanore,
Whom with my eyes I love,
'Gainst all that is right,
In my own despite,
I shall false and faithless prove.
Come teach your arts to me,
For each of the darling damsels
Is as sweet as she can be!
And if I wed with Charlamine
Of the airy little feet.
I shall sicken and sigh,
I shall droop and die,
For my gentle Marguerite!
And if I wed with Marguerite,
Whom I so much adore,
I shall long to go
From her hand of snow
To my Lady Heleanore!
And if I wed with Heleanore,
Whom with my eyes I love,
'Gainst all that is right,
In my own despite,
I shall false and faithless prove.
EASTER BRIDAL SONG.
Haste, little fingers, haste, haste!
Haste, little fingers, pearly;
And all along the slender waist,
And up and down the silken sleeves
Knot the darling and dainty leaves,
And wind o' the south, blow light and fast,
And bring the flowers so early!
Haste, little fingers, pearly;
And all along the slender waist,
And up and down the silken sleeves
Knot the darling and dainty leaves,
And wind o' the south, blow light and fast,
And bring the flowers so early!
219
Low, droop low, my tender eyes,
Low, and all demurely,
And make the shining seams to run
Like little streaks o' th' morning sun
Through silver clouds so purely;
And fall, sweet rain, fall out o' th' skies,
And bring the flowers so early!
Low, and all demurely,
And make the shining seams to run
Like little streaks o' th' morning sun
Through silver clouds so purely;
And fall, sweet rain, fall out o' th' skies,
And bring the flowers so early!
Push, little hands, from the bended face,
The tresses crumpled curly,
And stitch the hem in the frill of snow
And give to the veil its misty flow,
And melt, ye frosts, so surly;
And shine out, spring, with your days of grace,
And bring the flowers so early!
The tresses crumpled curly,
And stitch the hem in the frill of snow
And give to the veil its misty flow,
And melt, ye frosts, so surly;
And shine out, spring, with your days of grace,
And bring the flowers so early!
PRODIGAL'S PLEA.
Shine down, little head, so fair,
From thy window in the wall;
Oh, my slighted golden hair,
Like the sunshine round me fall—
Little head, so fair, so bright,
Fill my darkness with thy light!
From thy window in the wall;
Oh, my slighted golden hair,
Like the sunshine round me fall—
Little head, so fair, so bright,
Fill my darkness with thy light!
Reach me down thy helping hand,
Little sweetheart, good and true;
Shamed, and self-condemned, I stand,
And wilt thou condemn me too?
Soilure of sin, be sure
Cannot harm thy hand so pure.
Little sweetheart, good and true;
Shamed, and self-condemned, I stand,
And wilt thou condemn me too?
Soilure of sin, be sure
Cannot harm thy hand so pure.
With thy quiet, calm my cry
Pleading to thee from afar.
Is it not enough that I
With myself should be at war?
With thy cleanness, cleanse my blood;
With thy goodness, make me good.
Pleading to thee from afar.
Is it not enough that I
With myself should be at war?
With thy cleanness, cleanse my blood;
With thy goodness, make me good.
Eyes that loved me once, I pray,
Be not crueller than death;
Hide each sharp-edged glance away
Underneath its tender sheath!
Make me not, sweet eyes, with scorn
Mourn that ever I was born!
Be not crueller than death;
Hide each sharp-edged glance away
Underneath its tender sheath!
Make me not, sweet eyes, with scorn
Mourn that ever I was born!
Oh, my roses! are ye dead;
That in love's delicious day,
Used to flower out ripe and red,
Fast as kisses plucked away?
Turn thy pale cheek, little wife;
Let me warm them back to life.
That in love's delicious day,
Used to flower out ripe and red,
Fast as kisses plucked away?
Turn thy pale cheek, little wife;
Let me warm them back to life.
I have wandered, oh, so far!
From the way of truth and right;
Shine out for my guiding star,
Little head, so dear and bright;
Dust of sin is on my brow—
Good enough for both, art thou!
From the way of truth and right;
Shine out for my guiding star,
Little head, so dear and bright;
Dust of sin is on my brow—
Good enough for both, art thou!
THE SEAL FISHER'S WIFE.
The west shines out through lines of jet,
Like the side of a fish through the fisher's net,
Silver and golden-brown;
And rocking the cradle, she sings so low,
As backward and forward, and to and fro,
She cards the wool for her gown.
Like the side of a fish through the fisher's net,
Silver and golden-brown;
And rocking the cradle, she sings so low,
As backward and forward, and to and fro,
She cards the wool for her gown.
She sings her sweetest, she sings her best,
And all the silver fades in the west,
And all the golden-brown,
And lowly leaning cradle across,
She mends the fire with faggots and moss,
And cards the wool for her gown.
And all the silver fades in the west,
And all the golden-brown,
And lowly leaning cradle across,
She mends the fire with faggots and moss,
And cards the wool for her gown.
Gray and cold, and cold and gray,
Over the look-out and over the bay,
The sleet comes sliding down,
And the blaze of the faggots flickers thin,
And the wind is beating the ice-blocks in,
As she cards the wool for her gown.
Over the look-out and over the bay,
The sleet comes sliding down,
And the blaze of the faggots flickers thin,
And the wind is beating the ice-blocks in,
As she cards the wool for her gown.
The fisher's boats in the ice are crushed.
And now her lullaby-song is hushed,—
For sighs the singing drown,—
And all, with fingers stiff and cold,
She covers the cradle, fold on fold,
With the carded wool of her gown.
And now her lullaby-song is hushed,—
For sighs the singing drown,—
And all, with fingers stiff and cold,
She covers the cradle, fold on fold,
With the carded wool of her gown.
And there—the cards upon her knee,
And her eyes wide open toward the sea,
Where the fisher's boats went down—
They found her all as cold as sleet,
And her baby smiling up so sweet,
From the carded wool of her gown.
And her eyes wide open toward the sea,
Where the fisher's boats went down—
They found her all as cold as sleet,
And her baby smiling up so sweet,
From the carded wool of her gown.
CARMIA.
My Carmia, my life, my saint,
No flower is sweet enough to paint
Thy sweet, sweet face for me!
The rose-leaf nails, the slender wrist,
The hand, the whitest ever kissed—
Dear Carmia, what has Raphael missed
In never seeing thee!
No flower is sweet enough to paint
Thy sweet, sweet face for me!
220
The hand, the whitest ever kissed—
Dear Carmia, what has Raphael missed
In never seeing thee!
Oh to be back among the days
Wherein she blessed me with her praise—
She knew not how to frown!
The memory of that time doth seem
Like dreaming of a lovely dream,
Or like a golden broider-seam
Stitched in some homely gown.
Wherein she blessed me with her praise—
She knew not how to frown!
The memory of that time doth seem
Like dreaming of a lovely dream,
Or like a golden broider-seam
Stitched in some homely gown.
No silken skein is half so soft
As those long locks I combed so oft—
No tender tearful skies—
No violet darkling into jet—
And all with daybreak dew-drops wet—
No star, when first the sun is set,
Is like my Carmia's eyes.
As those long locks I combed so oft—
No tender tearful skies—
No violet darkling into jet—
And all with daybreak dew-drops wet—
No star, when first the sun is set,
Is like my Carmia's eyes.
But not the dainty little wrist,
Nor hand, the whitest ever kissed,
Nor face, so sweet to see,
Nor words of praise, that so did bless,
Nor rose-leaf nail, nor silken tress,
Made her so dear to me.
Nor hand, the whitest ever kissed,
Nor face, so sweet to see,
Nor words of praise, that so did bless,
Nor rose-leaf nail, nor silken tress,
Made her so dear to me.
'T was nothing my poor words can tell,
Nor charm of chance, nor magic spell
To wane, and waste, and fall—
I loved her to the utmost strain
Of heart and soul and mind and brain,
And Carmia loved me back again,
And that is all-and-all!
Nor charm of chance, nor magic spell
To wane, and waste, and fall—
I loved her to the utmost strain
Of heart and soul and mind and brain,
And Carmia loved me back again,
And that is all-and-all!
EPITHALAMIUM.
In the pleasant spring-time weather—
Rosy morns and purple eves—
When the little birds together
Sit and sing among the leaves,
Then it seems as if the shadows,
With their interlacing boughs,
Had been hung above the meadows
For the plighting of their vows!
Rosy morns and purple eves—
When the little birds together
Sit and sing among the leaves,
Then it seems as if the shadows,
With their interlacing boughs,
Had been hung above the meadows
For the plighting of their vows!
In the lighter, warmer weather,
When the music softly rests,
And they go to work together
For the building of their nests;
Then the branches, for a wonder,
Seem uplifted everywhere,
To be props and pillars under
Little houses in the air.
When the music softly rests,
And they go to work together
For the building of their nests;
Then the branches, for a wonder,
Seem uplifted everywhere,
To be props and pillars under
Little houses in the air.
But when we see the meeting
Of the lives that are to run
Henceforward to the beating
Of two hearts that are as one,
When we hear the holy taking
Of the vows that cannot break,
Then it seems as if the making
Of the world was for their sake.
Of the lives that are to run
Henceforward to the beating
Of two hearts that are as one,
When we hear the holy taking
Of the vows that cannot break,
Then it seems as if the making
Of the world was for their sake.
JENNIE.
Now tell me all my fate, Jennie,—
Why need I plainer speak?
For you see my foolish heart has bled
Its secret in my cheek!
Why need I plainer speak?
For you see my foolish heart has bled
Its secret in my cheek!
You must not leave me thus, Jennie,—
You will not, when you know,
It is my life you 're treading on
At every step you go.
You will not, when you know,
It is my life you 're treading on
At every step you go.
Ah, should you smile as now, Jennie,
When the wintry weather blows,
The daisy, waking out of sleep,
Would come up through the snows.
When the wintry weather blows,
The daisy, waking out of sleep,
Would come up through the snows.
Shall our house be on the hill, Jennie,
Where the sumach hedges grow?
You must kiss me, darling, if it's yes,
And kiss me if it 's no.
Where the sumach hedges grow?
You must kiss me, darling, if it's yes,
And kiss me if it 's no.
It shall be very fine—the door
With bean-vines overrun,
And th' window toward the harvest-field
Where first our love begun.
With bean-vines overrun,
And th' window toward the harvest-field
Where first our love begun.
What marvel that I could not mow
When you came to rake the hay,
For I cannot speak your name, Jennie,
If I 've nothing else to say.
When you came to rake the hay,
For I cannot speak your name, Jennie,
If I 've nothing else to say.
Nor is it strange that when I saw
Your sweet face in a frown,
I hung my scythe in the apple-tree,
And thought the sun was down.
Your sweet face in a frown,
I hung my scythe in the apple-tree,
And thought the sun was down.
For when you sung the tune that ends
With such a golden ring,
The lark was made ashamed, and sat
With her head beneath her wing.
With such a golden ring,
The lark was made ashamed, and sat
With her head beneath her wing.
You need not try to speak, Jennie,
You blush and tremble so,
But kiss me, darling, if it 's yes,
And kiss me if it 's no!
You blush and tremble so,
But kiss me, darling, if it 's yes,
And kiss me if it 's no!
221
MIRIAM.
Like to that little homely flower
That never from her rough house stirs
While summer lasts, but sits and combs
The sunbeams with her purple burs,
That never from her rough house stirs
While summer lasts, but sits and combs
The sunbeams with her purple burs,
So kept she in her house content
While love's bright summer with her stayed:
But change works change, and since she met
A shadow from the land of shade;
While love's bright summer with her stayed:
But change works change, and since she met
A shadow from the land of shade;
The ghost of that wild flower that sits
In her rough house, and never stirs
While summer lasts, has not a face
So dead of meaning, as is hers.
In her rough house, and never stirs
While summer lasts, has not a face
So dead of meaning, as is hers.
In vain the pitying year puts on
Her rose-red mornings, for like streams
Lost from the sunlight under banks
Of wintry darkness, are her dreams.
Her rose-red mornings, for like streams
Lost from the sunlight under banks
Of wintry darkness, are her dreams.
In vain among their clouds of green
The wild birds sing—she says with tears
Their sweet tongues stammer in the tunes
They sang so well in other years.
The wild birds sing—she says with tears
Their sweet tongues stammer in the tunes
They sang so well in other years.
Her home in ruins lies, and thorns
Choke with their briery arms, the door;
What matter, says she, since that love
Will cross the threshold, never more.
Choke with their briery arms, the door;
What matter, says she, since that love
Will cross the threshold, never more.
[O winds! ye are too rough, too rough]
O winds! ye are too rough, too rough!O spring! thou art not long enough
For sweetness; and for thee,
O love! thou still must overpass
Time's low and dark and narrow glass,
And fill eternity.
| [Poems by Cary in] The Poetical Works Of Alice and Phoebe Cary | |