All the Days of My Life: An Autobiography

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Amelia Barr

Жанр

Зарубежная классика

Год написания книги

2017

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Now, weary eyes, go sleep;
You shall see no more wrong,
Nor anxious watches keep
For Love that tarries long;
Shall shed no more sad tears
Through all the years.
Fold down your lids and sleep —
’Tis living eyes that weep.

Poor beating heart, now rest;
Sorrow or pain no more
Shall make thee sore distrest;
Thy restless care is o’er.
Go still sweet session keep
Of blissful sleep,
And no more throb and ache —
’Tis living hearts that break.

Help

My hands have often been weary hands,
Too tired to do their daily task;
And just to fold them forevermore
Has seemed the boon that was best to ask.

My feet have often been weary feet,
Too tired to walk another day;
And I’ve thought, “To sit and calmly wait
Is better far than the onward way.”

My eyes with tears have been so dim
That I have said, “I can not mark
The work I do or the way I take,
For every where it is dark – so dark!”

But, oh, thank God! There never has come
That hour that makes the bravest quail:
No matter how weary my feet and hands,
God never has suffered my heart to fail.

So the folded hands take up their work,
And the weary feet pursue their way;
And all is clear when the good heart cries,
“Be brave! – to-morrow’s another day.”

Yellow Jasmine

Do angels come as flowers, O golden stars!
That I can hold within my small white palm?
Or were you dropped from o’er the crystal bars,
Filled with the perfume of celestial psalms?

Why did you come? For fear I should forget?
Nay, but sweet flowers, you would not judge me so.
Are there not memories between us set,
No later love, no future days can know?

Cool bosky woodlands that were jasmine bowers,
With misty haze of bluebells up the glade
Then, had I met an angel pulling flowers,
I had not been astonished or afraid.

Beautiful children, innocent and bright,
O Golden Jasmine! for Love kissing you
I see them yet, with hair like braided light,
And eyes like purple pansies, wet with dew.

Could I have known, could I have but foreseen
How near the pearly gates their feet had won,
How had I clasped those hands my hands between —
Those tiny hands, whose little work is done.

Calm graves, lapped in sweet grasses, cool and deep,
Where soft winds sing and whisper through all hours:
O starry flowers, for me Love’s vigil keep,
With scent and shadow and sweet-dropping flowers.

My Little Brown Pipe

I have a little comforter
I carry in my pocket;
It is not any woman’s face
Set in a golden locket;
It is not any kind of purse,
It is not book or letter,
But yet at times, I really think,
That it is something better.

Oh! my pipe! My little brown pipe!
How oft at morning early,
When vexed with thoughts of coming toil
And just a little surly,
I sit with thee till things get clear,
And all my plans grow steady,
And I can face the strife of life
With all my senses ready.

No matter if my temper stands
At stormy, fair, or clearing,