Quote

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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Phoebe Cary
Age: 46 †
Born: 1824
Born: September 4
Died: 1871
Died: July 31
Poet
Writer
Cincinnati
Ohio
Gathered
Grapes
Thistle
Harvest
Harvests
Since
Ripened
Born
Thistles
Never
Figs
Men
Thorn
Laborers

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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.
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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.
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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.
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Father, perfect my trustLet my spirit feel in death,That her feet are firmly setOn the rock of a living faith!
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For those roses bright, oh, those roses bright! I have twined them in my sister's locks That are hid in the dust from sight.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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Sometimes, I think the things we see are shadows of the things to be that what we plan we build
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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!
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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?
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Do we call the star lost that is hidden / In the great light of morn?
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