 | [Poems by Cary in] The poems of Alice and Phoebe Cary with introduction and notes |  |
ENTERING HEAVEN.
Softly part away the tresses
From her forehead of white clay,
And across her quiet bosom
Let her pale hands lightly lay;
Never idly in her lifetime
Were they folded thus away.
From her forehead of white clay,
And across her quiet bosom
Let her pale hands lightly lay;
Never idly in her lifetime
Were they folded thus away.
She hath lived a life of labor,
She has done with toil and care,
She hath lived a life of sorrow,
She has nothing more to bear,
And the lips that never murmured
Never more shall move in prayer.
She has done with toil and care,
She hath lived a life of sorrow,
She has nothing more to bear,
And the lips that never murmured
Never more shall move in prayer.
You who watched with me beside her,
As her last of nights went by,
Know how calmly she assured us
That her hour was drawing nigh;
How she told us, sweetly smiling,
She was glad that she could die.
As her last of nights went by,
Know how calmly she assured us
That her hour was drawing nigh;
How she told us, sweetly smiling,
She was glad that she could die.
Many times from off the pillow
Lifting up her face to hear,
She had seemed to watch and listen,
Half in hope and half in fear,
Often asking those about her
If the day were drawing near.
Lifting up her face to hear,
She had seemed to watch and listen,
Half in hope and half in fear,
Often asking those about her
If the day were drawing near.
Till at last, as one aweary,
To herself she murmured low,
“Could I see him, could I bless him
Only once before I go;
If he knew that I was dying,
He would come to me, I know.”
To herself she murmured low,
“Could I see him, could I bless him
Only once before I go;
If he knew that I was dying,
He would come to me, I know.”
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Drawing then my head down gently,
Till it lay beside her own,
Said she, “Tell him in his anguish,
When he finds that I am gone,
That the bitterness of dying
Was to leave him here alone.
Till it lay beside her own,
Said she, “Tell him in his anguish,
When he finds that I am gone,
That the bitterness of dying
Was to leave him here alone.
“Leave me now, my dear ones, leave me,
You are wearied now, I know;
You have all been kind and watchful,
You can do no more below,
And if none I love are near me,
'T will be easier to go.
You are wearied now, I know;
You have all been kind and watchful,
You can do no more below,
And if none I love are near me,
'T will be easier to go.
“Let your warm hands chill not slipping
From my fingers' icy tips,
Be there not the touch of kisses
On my uncaressing lips,
Let no kindness see the darkening
Of my eyes' last, long eclipse.
From my fingers' icy tips,
Be there not the touch of kisses
On my uncaressing lips,
Let no kindness see the darkening
Of my eyes' last, long eclipse.
“Never think of me as lying
By the dismal mould o'erspread,
But about the soft white pillow
Folded underneath my head;
And of summer flowers weaving
A rich broidery o'er my bed.
By the dismal mould o'erspread,
But about the soft white pillow
Folded underneath my head;
And of summer flowers weaving
A rich broidery o'er my bed.
“Think of the immortal spirit
Living up above the sky,
And of how my face, there wearing
Light of immortality,
Looking earthward, is o'erleaning
The white bastions of the sky.”
Living up above the sky,
And of how my face, there wearing
Light of immortality,
Looking earthward, is o'erleaning
The white bastions of the sky.”
Stilling then, with one last effort,
All her weakness and her woe,
She seemed wrapt in pleasant visions
But to wait her time to go;
For she never after midnight
Spoke of anything below,—
All her weakness and her woe,
She seemed wrapt in pleasant visions
But to wait her time to go;
For she never after midnight
Spoke of anything below,—
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But kept murmuring very softly
Of cool streams and pleasant bowers,
Of a pathway going up brightly,
Where the fields were white with flowers;
And at daybreak she had entered
On a better life than ours.
Of cool streams and pleasant bowers,
Of a pathway going up brightly,
Where the fields were white with flowers;
And at daybreak she had entered
On a better life than ours.
| [Poems by Cary in] The poems of Alice and Phoebe Cary with introduction and notes | |