Quote

Father, perfect my trustLet my spirit feel in death,That her feet are firmly setOn the rock of a living faith!

Phoebe Cary

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Phoebe Cary
Age: 46 †
Born: 1824
Born: September 4
Died: 1871
Died: July 31
Poet
Writer
Cincinnati
Ohio
Father
Firmly
Death
Rock
Spirit
Rocks
Feel
Trust
Feels
Feet
Perfect
Faith
Living

More quotes by Phoebe Cary

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Books were put out, and 'had a run,' / Like coinage from the mint / But which could fill the place of one, / That one they wouldn't print?
Phoebe Cary
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O that one unguarded moment! / Were it mine to live again, / All the strength of its temptation / Would appeal to me in vain.
Phoebe Cary
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There are eyes half defiant, Half meek and compliant Black eyes, with a wondrous, witching charm To bring us good or to work with harm.
Phoebe Cary
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One sweetly solemn thought, comes to me o'er and o'er I am nearer home today, than I ever have been before.
Phoebe Cary
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You may wear your virtues as a crown, As you walk through life serenely, And grace your simple rustic gown With a beauty more than queenly. Though only one for you shall care, One only speak your praises And you never wear in your shining hair, A richer flower than daisies.
Phoebe Cary
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But alas for the dreams that round us play! / For the plans of mortal making! / And alas for the false and fickle day / That looked so fair at waking!
Phoebe Cary
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Sometimes, I think the things we see are shadows of the things to be that what we plan we build
Phoebe Cary
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Ah, there are moments for us here, when, seeing Life's inequalities, and woe, and care, The burdens laid upon our mortal being Seem heavier than the human heart can bear.
Phoebe Cary
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I know not which I love the most, Nor which the comeliest shows, The timid, bashful violet Or the royal-hearted rose: The pansy in purple dress, The pink with cheek of red, Or the faint, fair heliotrope, who hangs, Like a bashful maid her head.
Phoebe Cary
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For little children everywhere A joyous season still we make We bring our precious gifts to them, Even for the dear child Jesus' sake.
Phoebe Cary
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Come up, April, though the valley, / In your robes of beauty drest, / Come and wake your flowery children / From their wintry beds of rest.
Phoebe Cary
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And never since harvests were ripened, / Or laborers born, / Have men gathered figs of the thistle, / Or grapes of the thorn!
Phoebe Cary
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Laugh out, O stream, from your bed of green, / Where you lie in the sun's embrace / And talk to the reeds that o'er you lean / To touch your dimpled face.
Phoebe Cary
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Do we call the star lost that is hidden / In the great light of morn?
Phoebe Cary
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I think true love is never blind, / But rather brings an added light / An inner vision quick to find / The beauties hid from common sight.
Phoebe Cary