Alice Cary

April 26, 1820 - 1871


First Lines of Alice Cary

Alas! his praise I cannot write,Along the still cold plain o'erhead,Among the beautiful picturesAn old man sits beside a wall,And why are you pale, my Nora?As white as the moonlight that fell at her feetAt the dead of night by the side of the SeaAt the north end of our village stands,Beneath a silvery sycamoreBoatman, thrice I've called thee o er,Come there ever memories, Harold,Come, thou of the drooping eyelid,Crossing the stubble, where, erewhile,Emily Mayfield all the dayFor me, in all life's desert sandHark! for the multitude cry out,Her white hands full of mountain flowers,I did love thee, Lily Lee,I sit where the wild bee is humming,In the embers all aglow,In the May woods alone -- yet not alone,Leave me, O leave me! my o'erwearied feet,Like a meteor, radiant, streaming,Low by the reedy sea went ancient Ops,Maidens, whose tresses shine,Midnight, beneath your sky,My house is low and small,No harsh complaint nor rude unmannered wo,Not the light of the long blue Summer,Oh tell me, sailor, tell me true,Once when we lingered, sorrow-proof,One night, when bitterer winds than ours,Talk to my heart, oh winds --The black walnut-logs in the chimneyThe moss is withered, the moss is brownThe winds of March are piping shrill,Three men that three gray mules bestrodeToo much of joy is sorrowful,Truth, with her calm and steady eyes,Trying, trying -- always trying --Underneath a dreary sky,Upon the silver beeches mossWhen I think of the weary nights and daysYesternight -- how long it seems! --