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Denis Florence MacCarthy
This eBook from the Gutenberg Project consists of approximately 80 pages of information about Poems.

But oh, my roses, how their great pure faces
  Beseech me as they bend from sculptured column. 
So with my wet cheek closely pressed against them,
  I listen to their pleadings sweet and solemn. 
Oh, Memory, if an hour of gloom and grieving
  I here have known, that hour before me set;
But all the peace and joy I am leaving,
  In mercy, Memory, let me forget.

Oh, home! if here a frown has ever chilled me,
  Let it now rise and darken on my sight. 
If a harsh word or look has ever grieved me,
  Let me remember that harsh word to-night. 
But all the tender words, the fond caressing,
  The loving smiles that daily I have met,
The patient mother love, God’s crowning blessing,
  In mercy, Memory, let me forget.

Here she has kissed me with fond looks of greeting;
  Will that smile fade when waiting me no longer? 
Oh, true first love, tender and changing never;
  But there’s a love that nearer is and stronger—­
He comes!  I kneel and kiss the stone, oh, mother,
  Where you have stood and blessed me with your eyes;
Forgive—­forgive me, mother—­father—­brother—­
  For oh, he loves me—­and love sanctifies.

COMFORT.

    Once through an autumn wood
    I roamed in tearful mood,
By grief dismayed, doubting, and ill at ease;
    When from a leafless oak,
    Methought low murmurs broke,
Complaining accents, as of words like these: 

    “Incline thy mighty ear
    Great Mother Earth, and hear
How I, thy child, am sorely vexed and tossed;
    No one to heed my moan,
    I shudder here, alone
With my destroyers, wind and snow, and frost.

    Then low and unaware
    This answer cleaved the air,
This tender answer, “Doubting one be still;
    Oh trust to me, and know
    The wind, the frost, the snow,
Are but my servants sent to do my will.

    “For the destroyer frost,
    His labor is not lost,
Rid thee he shall of many noisome things;
    And thou shalt praise the snow
    When drinking far below
Refreshment sweet from overflowing springs.

    “My child thou’rt not alone,
    I love thee, hear thy moan,
But winds that fret thee only causeth thee
    To more securely stand,
    More firmly clasp my hand,
And soaring upward, closer cling to me.”

    Then from my burdened heart
    The shadows did depart,
Then said I softly—­“winds of sorrow blow
    So I but closer cling
    To thee, my Lord, my King,
Who loves me, even me, so weak and low.”

JENNY ALLEN.

I never shall hear your voice again,
  Your voice so gentle and low
But the thought of you, Jenny Allen,
  Will go with me where I go. 
Your sweet voice drowns the Atlantic wave
  And the rush of the Alpine snow.

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