 | [Poems by Cary in] The poets and poetry of the West |  |
350
HARVEST TIME.
God's blessing on the reapers! all day long
A quiet sense of peace my spirit fills,
As whistled fragments of untutored song
Blend with the rush of sickles on the hills;
And the blue wild flowers and green brier-leaves
Are brightly tangled with the yellow sheaves.
A quiet sense of peace my spirit fills,
As whistled fragments of untutored song
Blend with the rush of sickles on the hills;
And the blue wild flowers and green brier-leaves
Are brightly tangled with the yellow sheaves.
Where straight and even the new furrows lie,
The cornstalks in their rising beauty stand;
Heaven's loving smile upon man's industry
Makes beautiful with plenty the wide land.
The barns, pressed out with the sweet hay, I see,
And feel how more than good God is to me!
The cornstalks in their rising beauty stand;
Heaven's loving smile upon man's industry
Makes beautiful with plenty the wide land.
The barns, pressed out with the sweet hay, I see,
And feel how more than good God is to me!
In the cool thicket the red robin sings,
And merrily before the mower's scythe
Chirps the green grasshopper, while slowly swings,
In the scarce-swaying air, the willow lithe;
And clouds sail softly through the upper calms,
White as the fleeces of the unshorn lambs.
And merrily before the mower's scythe
Chirps the green grasshopper, while slowly swings,
In the scarce-swaying air, the willow lithe;
And clouds sail softly through the upper calms,
White as the fleeces of the unshorn lambs.
Outstretched beneath the venerable trees,
Conning his long, hard task, the schoolboy lies,
And, like a fickle wooer, the light breeze
Kisses his brow, then, scarcely sighing, flies;
And all about him pinks and lilies stand,
Painting with beauty the wide pasture-land.
Conning his long, hard task, the schoolboy lies,
And, like a fickle wooer, the light breeze
Kisses his brow, then, scarcely sighing, flies;
And all about him pinks and lilies stand,
Painting with beauty the wide pasture-land.
Oh, there are moments when we half forget
The rough, harsh grating of the file of Time;
And I that believe angels come down yet
And walk with us, as in Eden clime,
Binding the heart away from woe and strife,
With leaves of healing from the Tree of Life.
The rough, harsh grating of the file of Time;
And I that believe angels come down yet
And walk with us, as in Eden clime,
Binding the heart away from woe and strife,
With leaves of healing from the Tree of Life.
And they are most unworthy who behold
The bountiful provisions of God's care,
When reapers sing among the harvest-gold,
And the mown meadow scents the quiet air,
And yet who never say, with all their heart,
How good, my Father, oh, how good thou art!
The bountiful provisions of God's care,
351
And the mown meadow scents the quiet air,
And yet who never say, with all their heart,
How good, my Father, oh, how good thou art!
353
A LOVER'S PASTIME.
Before the daybreak, I arise,
And search, to find if earth or air
Hold any where
The likeness of thy sweet, sweet eyes!
And search, to find if earth or air
Hold any where
The likeness of thy sweet, sweet eyes!
In nature's book,
Where semblances of thee I trace,
I mark the place,
With flowers that have a bleeding look,
For pity, gentleness and grace,
With lilies white;
And roses that are burning bright
I take for blushes: then I catch
The sunbeams from the jealous air,
And with them match
The amber crowning of thy hair.
Where semblances of thee I trace,
I mark the place,
With flowers that have a bleeding look,
For pity, gentleness and grace,
With lilies white;
And roses that are burning bright
I take for blushes: then I catch
The sunbeams from the jealous air,
And with them match
The amber crowning of thy hair.
The dews that shine on withering wood,
Or thirsty lands,
Quietly busy doing good,
Are like thy hands.
Or thirsty lands,
Quietly busy doing good,
Are like thy hands.
The brown-eyed sunflower, all the day
Looking one way,
I take for patience, made divine
By melancholy fears, like thine.
Looking one way,
I take for patience, made divine
By melancholy fears, like thine.
Ere break of day
I'm up and searching earth and air,
To find out where,
If find I may,
Nature hath copied to her praise
The beauty of thy gracious ways.
I'm up and searching earth and air,
To find out where,
If find I may,
Nature hath copied to her praise
The beauty of thy gracious ways.
The wild sweet-brier
Shows through the brook in many a place;
But for the smiling in thy face,
She would not have her good attire.
Shows through the brook in many a place;
But for the smiling in thy face,
She would not have her good attire.
Sometimes I walk the stubbly ways
That have small praise,
But spy out, ne'ertheless,
Some patch of moss, all softly pied,
Or rude stone, with a speckled side,
Telling thy loveliness.
I make believe the brooks that run
With pleasant noise,
From sun to shade, and shade to sun,
Mimic thy murmured joys.
That have small praise,
But spy out, ne'ertheless,
Some patch of moss, all softly pied,
Or rude stone, with a speckled side,
Telling thy loveliness.
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With pleasant noise,
From sun to shade, and shade to sun,
Mimic thy murmured joys.
So, dearest heart,
I cheat the cruelty
That keeps us all too long apart,
With many a poor conceit of thee.
I cheat the cruelty
That keeps us all too long apart,
With many a poor conceit of thee.
The songs of birds,
Floating the orchard tops among,
Echo the music of thy tongue;
And fancy tries to find what words
Come nestling to my breast
With melody so excellently dress'd.
Floating the orchard tops among,
Echo the music of thy tongue;
And fancy tries to find what words
Come nestling to my breast
With melody so excellently dress'd.
Before the daybreak, I arise,
And search through earth, and sky, and air,
But find I never any where
The likeness of thy sweet, sweet eyes,
My modest lady, my exceeding fair.
And search through earth, and sky, and air,
But find I never any where
The likeness of thy sweet, sweet eyes,
My modest lady, my exceeding fair.
PENITENCE.
O, I am sick of what I am! Of all
Which I in life can ever hope to be;
Angels of light be pitiful to me,
And build your white wings round me like a wall;
And save me from the thought of what has been,
In days and years I have no pleasure in.
Which I in life can ever hope to be;
Angels of light be pitiful to me,
And build your white wings round me like a wall;
And save me from the thought of what has been,
In days and years I have no pleasure in.
Disabled, stalled in habit's deep-worn rut,
My labor is a vain and empty strife—
A useless tugging at the wheels of life
After the vital tendons all are cut:
I have no plea, no argument to make—
Only your love can save me for love's sake.
My labor is a vain and empty strife—
A useless tugging at the wheels of life
After the vital tendons all are cut:
I have no plea, no argument to make—
Only your love can save me for love's sake.
355
The evil I have done I do deplore,
And give my praise to whom it doth belong
For each good deed that seemeth out of wrong
An accidental step, and nothing more.
Treasure for heavenly investment meant,
I, like a thriftless prodigal, have spent.
And give my praise to whom it doth belong
For each good deed that seemeth out of wrong
An accidental step, and nothing more.
Treasure for heavenly investment meant,
I, like a thriftless prodigal, have spent.
I am not in the favor of men's eyes,
Nor am I skilled immortal stuff to weave;
No rose of honor wear I on my sleeve,
To cheer the gloom when that my body lies
An unrigged hulk, to rot upon life's ford—
The crew of mutinous senses overboard.
Nor am I skilled immortal stuff to weave;
No rose of honor wear I on my sleeve,
To cheer the gloom when that my body lies
An unrigged hulk, to rot upon life's ford—
The crew of mutinous senses overboard.
What shall I bring thy anger to efface,
Great Lord? The flowers along the summer brooks
In bashful silence praise Thee with sweet looks,
But I, alas! am poor in beauty's grace,
And am undone—lost utterly, unless
My faults thou buriest in thy tenderness.
Great Lord? The flowers along the summer brooks
In bashful silence praise Thee with sweet looks,
But I, alas! am poor in beauty's grace,
And am undone—lost utterly, unless
My faults thou buriest in thy tenderness.
356
BLESSED LOVE.
“Love! blessed Love! if we could hang our walls with
The red coats of a thousand rosy Mays,
Surely they would not shine so well as thou dost,
Lighting our dusty days.
The red coats of a thousand rosy Mays,
Surely they would not shine so well as thou dost,
Lighting our dusty days.
“Without thee, what a dim and woeful story
Our years would be, oh, excellence sublime!
Slip of the life eternal, brightly growing
In the low soil of time!”
Our years would be, oh, excellence sublime!
Slip of the life eternal, brightly growing
In the low soil of time!”
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