 | [Poems by Larcom in] The ladies' wreath and Parlor Annual |  |
76
TO MY THOUGHTS.
Come, groping thoughts, come home!
Why burrow 'neath the loam
Like moles, with lowest toil of lower things?
Leave grovelling unto brutes unblest with wings!
Ye, made to soar and shine among the stars,
The dust of sense your golden plumage mars;
And ye are stifling with the heavy clod
Your songs that grew from the dear name of God.
Why burrow 'neath the loam
Like moles, with lowest toil of lower things?
Leave grovelling unto brutes unblest with wings!
Ye, made to soar and shine among the stars,
The dust of sense your golden plumage mars;
And ye are stifling with the heavy clod
Your songs that grew from the dear name of God.
Come home, vain thoughts, come home!
The wild waves' beaded foam
Makes the sea beautiful in its unrest;
But 'mid the billows ye can weave no nest.
Light waifs of Fancy will ye ever be,
Borne here and there across a gleaming sea?
The ark is open; let the weary dove
Alight upon the outstretched hand of Love.
The wild waves' beaded foam
Makes the sea beautiful in its unrest;
But 'mid the billows ye can weave no nest.
Light waifs of Fancy will ye ever be,
Borne here and there across a gleaming sea?
The ark is open; let the weary dove
Alight upon the outstretched hand of Love.
Come, dizzy thoughts, come home!
Beyond the sky's great dome,
Vaster than vision, save the Rearer's eye,
It is in vain for motes like you to fly.
Bring home this message from your flight once more,
That there are heights to which ye cannot soar.
Faint with your wanderings through the lonely sphere,
Take humbly Life's neglected crumbs for cheer.
Beyond the sky's great dome,
Vaster than vision, save the Rearer's eye,
It is in vain for motes like you to fly.
Bring home this message from your flight once more,
That there are heights to which ye cannot soar.
Faint with your wanderings through the lonely sphere,
Take humbly Life's neglected crumbs for cheer.
Come home, tired thoughts, come home!
Ye need no longer roam.
Your flutterings in one shelter may be stilled,—
See, by the Cross there's room enough to build.
The Cross—firm root, upspreading to a Tree,
With boughs that overarch eternity.
Oh, vagrant thoughts! deceived, bewildered long,
Rest in this shade, and sing your grateful song!
Ye need no longer roam.
Your flutterings in one shelter may be stilled,—
See, by the Cross there's room enough to build.
The Cross—firm root, upspreading to a Tree,
With boughs that overarch eternity.
Oh, vagrant thoughts! deceived, bewildered long,
Rest in this shade, and sing your grateful song!
| [Poems by Larcom in] The ladies' wreath and Parlor Annual | |