Phoebe Carey

Sept 4, 1824 - 1871



by Phoebe Carey

An urn within her clasped hands,
Brimful and running o'er with dew
Spring on the green hills smiling stands,
Or walks in pleasant valley-lands,
Through sprouting grass and violets blue.
And but this morn, almost before
The sunshine came its leaves to gild,
In the old elm that shades our door,
There came a timid bird to build.

O time of flowers! O time of song!
How does my heart rejoice again!
For pleasant things to thee belong;
And desolate, and drear, and long,
To me was Winter's lonesome reign:
Since last thou trodd'st the vale and hill,
And nature with delight was rife,
A shadow strange, and dark, and chill,
Has hung above my house of life.

But now I see its blackness drift
Away, away, from out my sky;
And, as its heavy folds uplift,
There shines upon me, through the rift,
A burning star of prophecy:
My heart is singing with the birds,
Life's orb has passed from its eclipse;
And some sweet poet's hopeful words
Are always, always, on my lips.

O thou who lov'st me! O my friend!
Whate'er thy fears, where'er thou art,
As these soft skies above thee bend,
Does not their pleasant sunshine lend
A gleam of sunshine to thy heart?
Sweet prophecies through all the day
Within my bosom softly thrill,
And, while the night-time wears away,
My sleep with pleasant visions fill.

And I must whisper unto thee,
Thou, who hast waited long in vain;
Though distant still the day may be,
It shall be in our destiny
To tread the selfsame path again;
And over hills, with blossoms white,
Or lingering by the singing streams,
That path shall wander on in light,
And life be happier than our dreams!


The Poems Of Phoebe Carey
Copyright 187_?
New York: Hurst And Company
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