Poems eBook

Denis Florence MacCarthy
This eBook from the Gutenberg Project consists of approximately 69 pages of information about Poems.

  Could I but climb a roof above my own,
    And greet grave Autumn as he walks the earth
  With secret signal that would make me known,
      I should not feel my dearth.

  Then silver mist or loud triumphant wind
    Might come in sad disguise and misery;
  I would but ponder in my secret mind
      How Autumn answers me.


  I love you, but a sense of pain
  Is in my heart and in my brain;
  Now, when your voice and eyes are kind,
  May I reveal my complex mind?

  Though I am yours, it is my curse
  Some ideal passion to rehearse: 
  I dream of one that’s not like you,
  Never of one that’s half so true.

  To quell these yearnings, vague and wild,
  I often kneel by our dear child,
  In still, dark nights (you are asleep),
  And hold his hands, and try to weep.

  I cannot weep; I cannot pray—­
  Why grow so pale, and turn away? 
  Do you expect to hold me fast
  By pretty legends in the past?

  It is a woman’s province, then,
  To be content with what has been? 
  To wear the wreath of withered flowers,
  That crowned her in the bridal hours?

  Still, I am yours:  this idle strife
  Stirs but the surface of my life: 
  And if you would but ask once more,
  “How goes the heart?” or at the door

  Imploring stand, and knock again,
  I might forget this sense of pain,
  And down oblivion’s sullen stream
  Would float the memory of my dream!


  I should be happy with my lot: 
  A wife and mother—­is it not
  Enough for me to be content? 
  What other blessing could be sent?

  A quiet house, and homely ways,
  That make each day like other days;
  I only see Time’s shadow now
  Darken the hair on baby’s brow!

  No world’s work ever comes to me,
  No beggar brings his misery;
  I have no power, no healing art
  With bruised soul or broken heart.

  I read the poets of the age,
  ’Tis lotus-eating in a cage;
  I study Art, but Art is dead
  To one who clamors to be fed

  With milk from Nature’s rugged breast,
  Who longs for Labor’s lusty rest. 
  O foolish wish!  I still should pine
  If any other lot were mine.


  Come, white angels, to baby and me;
    Touch his blue eyes with the image of sleep,
    In his surprise he will cease to weep;
  Hush, child, the angels are coming to thee!

  Come, white doves, to baby and me;
    Softly whirr in the silent air,
    Flutter about his golden hair: 
  Hark, child, the doves are cooing to thee!

  Come, white lilies, to baby and me;
    Drowsily nod before his eyes,
    So full of wonder, so round and wise: 
  Hist, child, the lily-bells tinkle for thee!

Project Gutenberg
Poems from Project Gutenberg. Public domain.
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