Tuesday, January 23, 2007

Some Poems by Cyrus Elder

by Cyrus Elder

I dreamed this morning, dearest wife,
I heard the robin sing;
Its note of love doth welcome in
The early days of spring;
It builds upon a budding bough,
It braves the lingering snow,
And weds as fearlessly as we
One happy year ago.

You were my bird, my bonny bird,
Among the warbling throng;
None, none could match in melody
The sweetness of your song—
As free as swallow on the wing
As innocent I know
When we were wedded in the spring
One happy year ago.

O loving wife! Our human life
Is like the changing year—
The chilly spring must wear away
Ere summer flowers appear;
And tender buds must blossom forth
And golden fruit may grow
Around the nest we builded here
One happy year ago.

Dear wife, our state is far from great,
But then our care is small;
We’ll trust our little lives to Him
Who makes the sparrows fall;
And every day He lends us here,
Betide us weal or woe,
We’ll bless the bond that bound our hearts,
One happy year ago.

From “My Gift” by Cyrus Elder, 1868 – pages 39-31

* * *

by Cyrus Elder

Once again this day returning
Bids the fair of song to flow
Fr my heart, sweet wife, is yearning
With the love of long ago…

…but it swell—and I will never
mourn as lost your maiden charms,
Lo in sweeter guise than ever,
Now you bear them in your arms.

Wife and babe, I fondly gather
Your dear forms unto my breast
Husband loved and loving father,
Now am I supremely blest.
Pleasure past and present gladness
Flow not from my feeble arm—
Lord, thou givest joy and sadness—
Keep my loved ones safe from harm.*

*Answered—Not my wish,
but according to His will.

From “My Gift” by Cyrus Elder, 1868 – page 41
* * *
by Cyrus Elder

I am not I—I seek myself in vain,
And know not what I seek—this is my pain.
Death shall unriddle all

Thou art Thyself—Thou has not part in me,
Thou art Thyself—and I am naught to Thee.
Then welcome Death.

From “My Gift” by Cyrus Elder, 1868 – page 51

* * * * *

From “Warrior Justice”
By Cyrus Elder

And thence his life was peace; its breath
So quiet, none could count it strange
When fell he last and final change
And quietly he slept in death.
- January 1863

From “My Gift” by Cyrus Elder, 1868 – page 61

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