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!
Source:The Poems Of Phoebe Carey
New York: Hurst And Company