Page:The Poets and Poetry of the West.djvu/370

 354 ALICE GARY. [1840-50. I make believe the brooks that run With pleasant noise, From sun to shade, and shade to sun, Mimic thy murmured joys. So, dearest heart, I cheat the cruelty That keeps us all too long apart, With many a poor conceit of thee. The songs of birds, Floating the orchax'd tops among, Echo the music of thy tongue ; And fancy tries to find what words Come nestling to my breast With melody so excellently dress'd. Before the daybreak, I arise. And search through earth, and sky, and air. But find I never any where The likeness of thy sweet, sweet eyes. My modest lady, my exceeding fair. TO THE MARCH FLOWERS. Keep your muddy covers close, flowers, Nor dare to open your eyes, For all this month your lover, the Sun, Will only tell you lies ! He will only tell you lies, flowers, Pretty, and undesigned. For through this rough and cloudy month He never knows his mind. The daffodil may look at him With her bright and angry eyes, But pinks that come with their hearts in their mouths Must wait for warmer skies. O daisies, stay in your grassy house, Ye poor deluded things. And keep your little white fingers shut Away from his golden rings. Ye meadow lilies, leopard-like. Under the mould, so deep. Crouch close, and keep your spotted cubs For a month yet, fast asleep. Trust not, ye modest violets, His promises to you. Nor dare upon his fickle smile To broaden your kerchiefs blue. Ye little twinkling marigolds, 'Tis wise sometimes to doubt, And though the wind should shake his moans To music, look not out. 'Tis a rough and churlish month, flowers. So heed ye my advice, Else you will wake, to go to sleep With cheeks as cold as ice. PENITENCE. O, I AM sick of what I am ! Of all Which I in life can ever hope to be ; Angels of light be pitiful to me. And build your white wings round me like a wall ; And save me from the thought of what has been. In days and years I have no pleasure in. Disabled, stalled in habit's deep-worn rut, My labor is a vain and empty strife — A useless tugging at the wheels of life After the vital tendons all are cut : I have no plea, no argument to make — Only your love can save me for love's sake.