Poems eBook

Denis Florence MacCarthy
This eBook from the Gutenberg Project consists of approximately 170 pages of information about Poems.
Fancy departs:  no more invent;
Contract thy firmament
To compass of a tent. 
There’s not enough for this and that,
Make thy option which of two;
Economize the failing river,
Not the less revere the Giver,
Leave the many and hold the few. 
Timely wise accept the terms,
Soften the fall with wary foot;
A little while
Still plan and smile,
And,—­fault of novel germs,—­
Mature the unfallen fruit. 
Curse, if thou wilt, thy sires,
Bad husbands of their fires,
Who, when they gave thee breath,
Failed to bequeath
The needful sinew stark as once,
The Baresark marrow to thy bones,
But left a legacy of ebbing veins,
Inconstant heat and nerveless reins,—­
Amid the Muses, left thee deaf and dumb,
Amid the gladiators, halt and numb.’

As the bird trims her to the gale,
I trim myself to the storm of time,
I man the rudder, reef the sail,
Obey the voice at eve obeyed at prime: 
’Lowly faithful, banish fear,
Right onward drive unharmed;
The port, well worth the cruise, is near,
And every wave is charmed.’

THE NUN’S ASPIRATION

The yesterday doth never smile,
The day goes drudging through the while,
Yet, in the name of Godhead, I
The morrow front, and can defy;
Though I am weak, yet God, when prayed,
Cannot withhold his conquering aid. 
Ah me! it was my childhood’s thought,
If He should make my web a blot
On life’s fair picture of delight,
My heart’s content would find it right. 
But O, these waves and leaves,—­
When happy stoic Nature grieves,
No human speech so beautiful
As their murmurs mine to lull. 
On this altar God hath built
I lay my vanity and guilt;
Nor me can Hope or Passion urge
Hearing as now the lofty dirge
Which blasts of Northern mountains hymn,
Nature’s funeral high and dim,—­
Sable pageantry of clouds,
Mourning summer laid in shrouds. 
Many a day shall dawn and die,
Many an angel wander by,
And passing, light my sunken turf
Moist perhaps by ocean surf,
Forgotten amid splendid tombs,
Yet wreathed and hid by summer blooms. 
On earth I dream;—­I die to be: 
Time, shake not thy bald head at me. 
I challenge thee to hurry past
Or for my turn to fly too fast. 
Think me not numbed or halt with age,
Or cares that earth to earth engage,
Caught with love’s cord of twisted beams,
Or mired by climate’s gross extremes. 
I tire of shams, I rush to be: 
I pass with yonder comet free,—­
Pass with the comet into space
Which mocks thy aeons to embrace;
Aeons which tardily unfold
Realm beyond realm,—­extent untold;
No early morn, no evening late,—­
Realms self-upheld, disdaining Fate,
Whose shining sons, too great for fame,
Never heard thy weary name;
Nor lives the tragic bard to say
How drear the part I held in one,
How lame the other limped away.

Copyrights
Project Gutenberg
Poems from Project Gutenberg. Public domain.
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