Augusta Joyce Crocheron

1844 - 1915

A Quote by Augusta Joyce Crocheron on angels, darkness, earth, effort, emptiness, fear, humility, influence, life, listening, men, motherhood, prayer, and soul

Thoughts Within As some poor laborer's sightless babe Wakes from its pallet on the floor In fear, to find itself alone, And gropes the open door to find; Reaching anon the empty air To clutch; seeking something to grasp To aid it in its search; and then, Wearying in its efforts vain, It lifts its plaintive, grieving wail; Then pauses, listening softly for Its mother's answering voice; so I Kneel down before Thine unseen throne- So I call to Thee in my prayer Earnest and deep, yet humble too; And listen with that inner ear Far in the soul's remotest depth. Not for Thy voice to sweep to earth Answering to my human cry, As angels in the old times did, When men were truly, purely Thine; But for an influence, sweet and still, To lead my groping soul aright. As though I, clinging to some hand, Across a torrent spanned but by A slender tree's decaying trunk, Looking not to the shore beyond, Nor turning, though the pine tree shriek And wave her arms, and writhe in the grasp Of the dark storm-fiend, strong in his wrath- Nor on the current swift beneath, Lest I should, swooning, fall and sink: But only where my steps should be. So will I, clinging, follow Thee Across life's deep, unmindful of The strife below,

Augusta Joyce Crocheron (1844 - 1915)

Source: a collection of poems, Wild Flowers of Deseret

Contributed by: Zaady

A Quote by Augusta Joyce Crocheron on bitterness, duty, gold, heart, memory, music, past, sacred, sleep, and thought

Parting What brought it back to me? I thought that it had fled; Again I sit with thee And watch the twilight red. Far out upon the deep The full moon's light is thrown. This night thou must not sleep; Stay near me, O, my own! How hard for me to know That this must be the last; That duty's wave must flow O'er all the sacred past. Dear heart, what walls that rise Can bar out memory's view, Or hush the poor heart's sighs You'll know are breathed for you? So fair the moon will rise To other eyes than ours, That weep while bitter sighs Stay not the winged hours. Upon the radiant sight, Front out the thronged halls, Like requiem to-night, The entrancing music falls. At last the daylight makes, With rising shafts of gold, Each heart in parting breaks, And duty's wage is told.

Augusta Joyce Crocheron (1844 - 1915)

Source: a collection of poems, Wild Flowers of Deseret

Contributed by: Zaady

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