Page:The Poets and Poetry of the West.djvu/368

 ^52 ALICE GARY. [1S4U-511. For o'er the sunshine fell a shadow wide When Lyra died. When sober Autumn, with his mist-bound brows, Sits drearily beneath the fading boughs, And the rain, chilly cold. Wrings from his beard of gold, And as some comfort for his lonesome hours. Hides in his bosom stalks of withered flowers, I think about what leaves are drooping round A smoothly shapen mound ; And if the wild wind cries Where Lyra lies. Sweet shepherds softly blow Ditties most sad and low — Piping on hollow reeds to your pent sheep — Calm be my Lyra's sleep, Unvexed with dream of the rough briers that pull From his strayed lambs the wool ! Oh, star, that tremblest dim Upon the welkin's rim, Send with thy milky shadows from above Tidings about my love ; If that some envious wave Made his untimely grave, Or if, so softening half my wild regrets, Some coverlid of bluest violets Was softly put aside, What time he died ! Nay, come not, piteous maids. Out of the murmurous shades ; But keep your tresses crowned as you may With eglantine and daffodillies gay. And with the dews of myrtles wash your cheeks. When flamy streaks, Uprunning tlie gray orient, tell of morn — While I^ forlorn. Pour all my heart in tears and plaints, in- stead. For Lyra, dead. CONTRADICTORY. We contradictory creatures Have something in us alien to our birth. That doth suffuse us with the infinite. While downward thi'ough our natures Run adverse thoughts, that only find delight In the poor, perishable things of earth. Blindly we feel about Our little circle — ever on the quest Of knowledge, which is only, at the best. Pushing the boundaries of our ignorance out. But while we know all things are miracles. And that we cannot set An ear of corn, nor tell a blade of grass The way to grow, our vanity o'erswells The limit of our wisdom, and we yet Audaciously o'erpass This narrow promontory Of low, dark land, into the unseen glory. And with unhallowed zeal Unto our fellow-men God's judgments deal. Sometimes along the gloom We meet a traveler, striking hands with whom, Maketh a little sweet and tender light To bless our sight, And change the clouds around ns and above Into celestial shapes, and this is love. Morn Cometh, trailing storms, Even while she wakes a thousand grateful psalms. And with her golden calms All the wide valley fills ; Darkly they lie below The purple fire — the glow. Where, on the high tops of the eastern hills, She rests her cloudy arms.