Reely's Poetry Blog

by CAROLINE LEAKEY (1827-1881)

     They tell me of a pleasant thing,
     Which cometh on a silent wing,
     And flappeth o'er the weary,
     Till it fanneth them to sleep,
I am, oh, how weary! but it passeth o'er my head.

     They tell me of a gentle one,
     That cometh when the day is done,
     And singeth by the weary,
     Till she singeth them to sleep,
I am, oh, how weary! but she will not sing to me.

     And they tell me of a finger,
     Which doth o'er walls of darkness linger,
     Pressing down the heavy eye,
     Till it falleth off to sleep,
Mine eye is, oh, how heavy! but no finger sealeth it.

     They tell me of a cup so cool,
     With water from a slumbrous pool,
     Right pleasant to the thirsty,
     For it lulleth them to sleep,
I am, oh, how thirsty! but that cup is drained dry.

     They tell me of another thing,
     Which hath a still more silent wing,
     And it flappeth o'er the weary,
     Till it fans away their breath;
Its shadows are upon me, I feel that fluttering wing.

     They tell me of another one,
     That cometh when the day is done,
     And singeth by the weary;
     But he singeth them to death!
Ah! He hath mercy on me, hark! He singeth by me now.

     They tell me of another finger,
     Which o'er darker walls doth linger,
     Pressing down the heavy eye,
     But sealing it for ever!
Mine eye is, oh, how heavy! that touch will seal it soon.

     They tell me of a cup so cool,
     With water from a slumbrous pool,
     Unpleasant to the thirsty,
     For it chills them unto death,
I am so very thirsty, I will drink of even it.

O little birds upon the tree!
Is it a sin to envy ye
     Your full unfettered strain?
O children sporting on the green!
A heart that once like you hath been,
     Looks on with care and pain,
And prays that long may yet delay
The darkened and the evil day,
     When ye must learn to sigh.

Sweet flowers, meek hiding in the grass,
Ye seem to smile on all that pass,
     To-morrow ye will die!
But that is as a joy to me;
Far worse to live in misery,
      Than in the grave to lie.
O ardent skies! repelling gaze,
Mine eye may turn a thousand ways,
      Ye only answer me,

"Hither is rest, hither is peace;
But wait awhile, and thou shalt cease
      To weep so bitterly."
O faithful skies! in childhood's love,
Ye were as gentle friend above,
      O'erwatching all my ways;
And now, through all my grief and pain,
Ye teach me how to trust again,
      And hope for brighter days.