Edmund Clarence Stedman, ed. (1833–1908). An American Anthology, 1787–1900. 1900.
By Sarah JosephaHale42 Alice Ray
T
Among the blossomed trees;
The flowers are sighing forth their sweets
To wooing honey-bees;
The glad brook o’er a pebbly floor
Goes dancing on its way,—
But not a thing is so like spring
As happy Alice Ray.
And, like the blest above,
The gentle maid had ever breathed
An atmosphere of love;
Her father’s smile like sunshine came,
Like dew her mother’s kiss;
Their love and goodness made her home,
Like heaven, the place of bliss.
The joyous child had sprung,
Like one bright flower, in wild-wood bower,
And gladness round her flung;
And all who met her blessed her,
And turned again to pray
That grief and care might ever spare
The happy Alice Ray.
Was not from Venus caught;
Nor was it, Pallas-like, derived
From majesty of thought;
Her heathful cheek was tinged with brown,
Her hair without a curl—
But then her eyes were love-lit stars,
Her teeth as pure as pearl.
Her sweet, clear voice was heard,
It welled from out her happy heart
Like carol of a bird;
And all who heard were moved to smiles,
As at some mirthful lay,
And to the stranger’s look replied,
“’T is that dear Alice Ray.”
That bring the April green;
As type of nature’s royalty,
They called her “Woodburn’s queen!”
A sweet, heart-lifting cheerfulness,
Like spring-time of the year,
Seemed ever on her steps to wait,—
No wonder she was dear.
She thought of grief and pain
As giants in the olden time,
That ne’er would come again;
The seasons all had charms for her,
She welcomed each with joy,—
The charm that in her spirit lived
No changes could destroy.
The waters always sweet,—
Her pony in the pasture,
The kitten at her feet,
The ruffling bird of Juno, and
The wren in the old wall,
Each knew her loving carefulness,
And came at her soft call.
For in the heart must live
The feeling that imparts the charm,—
We gain by what we give.