The Literary Maiden

A compendium of obscure 19th century writing.

Category: Jones Very

“The Frost” by Jones Very

The Frost.
By Jones Very
From Poems by Jones Very

THE frost is out, and in the open fields,
And late within the woods, I marked his track;
The unwary flower his icy fingers feels,
And at their touch the crispëd leaf rolls back;—
Look, how the maple o’er a sea of green
Waves in the autumnal wind his flag of red!
First struck of all the forest’s spreading screen,
Most beauteous, too, the earliest of her dead.
Go on: thy task is kindly meant by Him
Whose is each flower and richly covered bough;
And though the leaves hang dead on every limb,
Still will I praise his love, that early now
Has sent before this herald of decay
To bid me heed the approach of Winter’s sterner

“Autumn Leaves” by Jones Very

Autumn Leaves.
By Jones Very
From Poems by Jones Very

THE leaves, though thick, are falling: one by one
Decayed they drop from off their parent tree;
Their work with Autumn’s latest day is done,—
Thou see’st them borne upon the breezes free.
They lie strewn here and there, their many dyes
That yesterday so caught thy passing eye;
Soiled by the rain each leaf neglected lies,
Upon the path where now thou hurriest by.
Yet think thee not their beauteous tints less fair
Than when they hung so gayly o’er thy head;
But rather find thee eyes, and look thee there
Where now thy feet so heedless o’er them tread,
And thou shalt see, where wasting now they lie,
The unseen hues of immortality.

“Autumn Days” by Jones Very

Autumn Days.
By Jones Very
From Poems by Jones Very

THE winds are out with loud increasing shout,
Where late before them walked the biting frost,
Whirling the leaves in their wild sport about,
And twig and limb athwart our path are tost.
But still the sun looks kindly on the year,
And days of summer warmth will linger yet;
And still the birds amid the fields we hear,
For the ripe grain and scattered seeds they get.
The shortening days grow slowly less and less,
And Winter comes with many a warning on;
And still some day with kindly smile will bless,
Till the last hope’s deceit is fledged and gone,
Before the deepening snows block up the way,
And the sweet fields are made of howling blasts
the prey.

“Morning” by Jones Very

By Jones Very
From Poems by Jones Very.

THE light will never open sightless eyes,
It comes to those who willingly would see;
And every object—hill, and stream, and skies—
Rejoice within th’ encircling line to be.
‘T is day,—the field is filled with busy hands,
The shop resounds with noisy workmen’s din,
The traveler with his staff already stands
His yet unmeasured journey to begin;
The light breaks gently, too, within the breast,—
Yet there no eye awaits the crimson morn,
The forge and noisy anvil are at rest,
Nor men nor oxen tread the fields of corn,
Nor pilgrim lifts his staff,—it is no day
To those who find on earth their place to stay.

“The Invitation” by Jones Very

The Invitation.
By Jones Very
From Poems by Jones Very

STAY where thou art, thou need’st not further go,
The flower with me is pleading at thy feet;
The clouds, the silken clouds, above me flow,
And fresh the breezes come thy cheek to greet.
Why hasten on;—hast thou a fairer home?
Has God more richly blest the world than here,
That thou in haste would’st from thy country roam,
Favored by every month that fills the year?
Sweet showers shall on thee here, as there, descend;
The sun salute thy morn and gild thy eve:
Come, tarry here, for Nature is thy friend,
And we an arbor for ourselves will weave;
And many a pilgrim, journeying on as thou,
Will grateful bless its shade, and list the wind-struck bough.