 | [Poems by Cary in] The Poetical Works Of Alice and Phoebe Cary |  |
THE EDGE OF DOOM.
Heart-sick, homeless, weak, and weary,
On the edge of doom she stands,
Fighting back the wily Tempter
With her trembling woman's hands.
On her lip a moan of pleading,
In her eyes a look of pain,
Men and women, men and women,
Shall her cry go up in vain?
On the edge of doom she stands,
Fighting back the wily Tempter
With her trembling woman's hands.
On her lip a moan of pleading,
In her eyes a look of pain,
Men and women, men and women,
Shall her cry go up in vain?
On the edge of doom and darkness—
Darker, deeper than the grave—
Off with pride, that devil's virtue!
While there yet is time to save,
Clinging for her life, and shrinking
Lower, lower from your frown:
Men and women, men and women,
Will you, can you, crowd her down?
Darker, deeper than the grave—
Off with pride, that devil's virtue!
While there yet is time to save,
Clinging for her life, and shrinking
Lower, lower from your frown:
Men and women, men and women,
Will you, can you, crowd her down?
On that head, so early faded,
Pitiless the rains have beat;
Famine down the pavements tracked her
By her bruised and bleeding feet.
Through the years, sweet old Naomi,
Lead her in the gleaners' way;
Boaz, oh, command your young men
To reproach her not, I pray.
Pitiless the rains have beat;
Famine down the pavements tracked her
By her bruised and bleeding feet.
Through the years, sweet old Naomi,
Lead her in the gleaners' way;
Boaz, oh, command your young men
To reproach her not, I pray.
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Face to face with shame and insult
Since she drew her baby-breath,
Were it strange to find her knocking
At the cruel door of death?
Were it strange if she should parley
With the great arch-fiend of sin?
Open wide, O gates of mercy,
Wider, wider!—let her in!
Since she drew her baby-breath,
Were it strange to find her knocking
At the cruel door of death?
Were it strange if she should parley
With the great arch-fiend of sin?
Open wide, O gates of mercy,
Wider, wider!—let her in!
Ah! my proud and scornful lady,
Lapped in laces fair and fine,
But for God's good grace and mercy
Such a fate as hers were thine.
Therefore, breaking combs of honey,
Breaking loaves of snowy bread,
If she ask a crumb, I charge you
Give her not a stone instead.
Lapped in laces fair and fine,
But for God's good grace and mercy
Such a fate as hers were thine.
Therefore, breaking combs of honey,
Breaking loaves of snowy bread,
If she ask a crumb, I charge you
Give her not a stone instead.
Never lullaby, sung softly,
Made her silken cradle stir;
Never ring of gay young playmates
Opened to make room for her!
Therefore, winds, sing up your sweetest,
Rocking lightly on the leaves;
And, O reapers, careless reapers,
Let her glean among your sheaves!
Made her silken cradle stir;
Never ring of gay young playmates
Opened to make room for her!
Therefore, winds, sing up your sweetest,
Rocking lightly on the leaves;
And, O reapers, careless reapers,
Let her glean among your sheaves!
Never mother, by her pillow,
Knelt and taught her how to say,
Lead me not into temptation,
Give me daily bread this day.
Therefore, reapers, while the cornstalks
To your shining sickles lean,
Drop, oh drop some golden handfuls—
Let her freely come and glean!
Knelt and taught her how to say,
Lead me not into temptation,
Give me daily bread this day.
Therefore, reapers, while the cornstalks
To your shining sickles lean,
Drop, oh drop some golden handfuls—
Let her freely come and glean!
Never mellow furrows crumbled
Softly to her childish tread—
She but sowed in stony places,
And the seed is choked and dead.
Therefore, let her rest among you
When the sunbeams fiercely shine—
Barley reapers, let her with you
Dip her morsel in the wine!
Softly to her childish tread—
She but sowed in stony places,
And the seed is choked and dead.
Therefore, let her rest among you
When the sunbeams fiercely shine—
Barley reapers, let her with you
Dip her morsel in the wine!
And entreat her not to leave you
When the harvest week is o'er,
Nor depart from following after,
Even to the threshing-floor.
But when stars through fields of shadow
Shepherd in the evening gray,
Fill her veil with beaten measures,
Send her empty not away.
When the harvest week is o'er,
Nor depart from following after,
Even to the threshing-floor.
But when stars through fields of shadow
Shepherd in the evening gray,
Fill her veil with beaten measures,
Send her empty not away.
Then the city round about her,
As she moveth by, shall stir
As it moved to meet Naomi
Home from famine—yea, for her!
And the Lord, whose name is Mercy,
Steadfast by your deed shall stand,
And shall make her even as Rachel,
Even as Leah, to the land.
As she moveth by, shall stir
As it moved to meet Naomi
Home from famine—yea, for her!
And the Lord, whose name is Mercy,
Steadfast by your deed shall stand,
And shall make her even as Rachel,
Even as Leah, to the land.
| [Poems by Cary in] The Poetical Works Of Alice and Phoebe Cary | |