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diff --git a/33940.txt b/33940.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..efb00fc --- /dev/null +++ b/33940.txt @@ -0,0 +1,2566 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of A Voice on the Wind, by Madison Julius Cawein + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: A Voice on the Wind + and Other Poems + +Author: Madison Julius Cawein + +Release Date: October 6, 2010 [EBook #33940] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A VOICE ON THE WIND *** + + + + +Produced by David Garcia, Dianne Nolan and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This +file was produced from images generously made available +by The Kentuckiana Digital Library) + + + + + + + + + + + A Voice on the Wind + + AND OTHER POEMS + + by + Madison Cawein + + [Illustration] + + Louisville + John P. Morton & Company, Publishers + 1902 + + + + + COPYRIGHTED 1902, BY MADISON CAWEIN + + + + + For permission to reprint several of the poems included in this + volume thanks are due to the _Atlantic Monthly_, _Harper's + Magazine_, _The Century Magazine_, _Smart Set_, _Saturday + Evening Post_, and _Lippincott's Magazine_. + + + + + INSCRIBED + + TO + + EDMUND GOSSE + + AS A SLIGHT TOKEN OF APPRECIATION AND ESTEEM + + + + + + PROEM. + + + OH, FOR A SOUL THAT FULFILLS + MUSIC LIKE THAT OF A BIRD! + THRILLING WITH RAPTURE THE HILLS, + HEEDLESS IF ANY ONE HEARD. + + OR, LIKE THE FLOWER THAT BLOOMS + LONE IN THE MIDST OF THE TREES, + FILLING THE WOODS WITH PERFUMES, + CARELESS IF ANY ONE SEES. + + OR, LIKE THE WANDERING WIND, + OVER THE MEADOWS THAT SWINGS, + BRINGING WILD SWEETS TO MANKIND, + KNOWING NOT THAT WHICH IT BRINGS. + + OH, FOR A WAY TO IMPART + BEAUTY, NO MATTER HOW HARD! + LIKE UNTO NATURE, WHOSE ART + NEVER ONCE DREAMS OF REWARD. + + + + + +A Voice on the Wind + + + + + A VOICE ON THE WIND + + + She walks with the wind on the windy height + When the rocks are loud and the waves are white, + And all night long she calls through the night, + "O, my children, come home!" + Her bleak gown, torn as a tattered cloud, + Tosses around her like a shroud, + While over the deep her voice rings loud,-- + "O, my children, come home, come home! + O, my children, come home!" + + Who is she who wanders alone, + When the wind drives sheer and the rain is blown? + Who walks all night and makes her moan, + "O, my children, come home!" + Whose face is raised to the blinding gale; + Whose hair blows black and whose eyes are pale, + While over the world is heard her wail,-- + "O, my children, come home, come home! + O, my children, come home!" + + She walks with the wind in the windy wood; + The sad rain drips from her hair and hood, + And her cry sobs by, like a ghost pursued, + "O, my children, come home!" + + Where the trees are gaunt and the rocks are drear, + The owl and the fox crouch down in fear, + While wild through the wood her voice they hear,-- + "O, my children, come home, come home! + O, my children, come home!" + + Who is she who shudders by + When the boughs blow bare and the dead leaves fly? + Who walks all night with her wailing cry, + "O, my children, come home!" + Who, strange of look, and wild of tongue, + With pale feet wounded and hands wan-wrung, + Sweeps on and on with her cry, far-flung,-- + "O, my children, come home, come home! + O, my children, come home!" + + 'Tis the Spirit of Autumn, no man sees, + The mother of Death and Mysteries, + Who cries on the wind all night to these, + "O, my children, come home!" + The Spirit of Autumn, pierced with pain, + Calling her children home again, + Death and Dreams, through ruin and rain, + "O, my children, come home, come home! + O, my children, come home!" + + + + + THE LAND OF HEARTS MADE WHOLE + + + Do you know the way that goes + Over fields of rue and rose,-- + Warm of scent and hot of hue, + Roofed with heaven's bluest blue,-- + To the Vale of Dreams Come True? + + Do you know the path that twines, + Banked with elder-bosks and vines, + Under boughs that shade a stream, + Hurrying, crystal as a gleam, + To the Hills of Love a-Dream? + + Tell me, tell me, have you gone + Through the fields and woods of dawn, + Meadowlands and trees that roll, + Great of grass and huge of bole, + To the Land of Hearts Made Whole? + + On the way, among the fields, + Poppies lift vermilion shields, + In whose hearts the golden Noon, + Murmuring her drowsy tune, + Rocks the sleepy bees that croon. + + On the way, amid the woods, + Mandrakes muster multitudes, + 'Mid whose blossoms, white as tusk, + Glides the glimmering Forest-Dusk, + With her fluttering moths of musk. + + Here you hear the stealthy stir + Of shy lives of hoof and fur; + Harmless things that hide and peer, + Hearts that sucked the milk of fear-- + Fox and rabbit, squirrel and deer. + + Here you see the mossy flight + Of faint forms that love the night-- + Whippoorwill- and owlet-things, + Whose far call before you brings + Wonder-worlds of happenings. + + Now in sunlight, now in shade, + Water, like a brandished blade, + Foaming forward, wild of flight, + Startles then arrests the sight, + Whirling steely loops of light. + + Thro' the tree-tops, down the vale, + Breezes pass and leave a trail + Of cool music that the birds, + Following in happy herds, + Gather up in twittering words. + + Blossoms, frail and manifold, + Strew the way with pearl and gold; + Blurs, that seem the darling print + Of the Springtime's feet, or glint + Of her twinkling gown's torn tint. + + There the myths of old endure: + Dreams that are the world-soul's cure; + Things that have no place or play + In the facts of Everyday + 'Round your presence smile and sway. + + Suddenly your eyes may see, + Stepping softly from her tree, + Slim of form and wet with dew, + The brown dryad; lips the hue + Of a berry bit into. + + You may mark the naiad rise + From her pool's reflected skies; + In her gaze the heaven that dreams, + Starred, in twilight-haunted streams, + Mixed with water's grayer gleams. + + You may see the laurel's girth, + Big of bloom, give fragrant birth + To the oread whose hair, + Musk and darkness, light and air, + Fills the hush with wonder there. + + You may mark the rocks divide, + And the faun before you glide, + Piping on a magic reed, + Sowing many a music seed, + From which bloom and mushroom bead. + + Of the rain and sunlight born, + Young of beard and young of horn, + You may see the satyr lie, + With a very knowing eye, + Teaching youngling birds to fly. + + These shall cheer and follow you + Through the Vale of Dreams Come True; + Wind-like voices, leaf-like feet; + Forms of mist and hazy heat, + In whose pulses sunbeams beat. + + Lo! you tread enchanted ground! + From the hollows all around + Elf and spirit, gnome and fay, + Guide your feet along the way + Till the dewy close of day. + + Then beside you, jet on jet, + Emerald-hued or violet, + Flickering swings a firefly light, + Aye to guide your steps a-right + From the valley to the height. + + Steep the way is; when at last + Vale and wood and stream are passed, + From the heights you shall behold + Panther heavens of spotted gold + Tiger-tawny deeps unfold. + + You shall see on stocks and stones + Sunset's bell-deep color tones + Fallen; and the valleys filled + With dusk's purple music, spilled + On the silence rapture-thrilled. + + Then, as answering bell greets bell, + Night ring in her miracle + Of the domed dark, o'er-rolled, + Note on note, with starlight cold, + 'Twixt the moon's broad peal of gold. + + On the hill-top Love-a-Dream + Shows you then her window-gleam; + Brings you home and folds your soul + In the peace of vale and knoll, + In the Land of Hearts Made Whole. + + + + + THE WIND OF WINTER + + + The Winter Wind, the wind of death, + Who knocked upon my door, + Now through the key-hole entereth, + Invisible and hoar; + He breathes around his icy breath + And treads the flickering floor. + + I heard him, wandering in the night, + Tap at my window pane, + With ghostly fingers, snowy white, + I heard him tug in vain, + Until the shuddering candle-light + With fear did cringe and strain. + + The fire, awakened by his voice, + Leapt up with frantic arms, + Like some wild babe that greets with noise + Its father home who storms, + With rosy gestures that rejoice + And crimson kiss that warms. + + Now in the hearth he sits and, drowned + Among the ashes, blows; + Or through the room goes stealing 'round + On cautious-stepping toes, + Deep mantled in the drowsy sound + Of night that sleets and snows. + + And oft, like some thin fairy-thing, + The stormy hush amid, + I hear his captive trebles ring + Beneath the kettle's lid; + Or now a harp of elfland string + In some dark cranny hid. + + Again I hear him, imp-like, whine + Cramped in the gusty flue; + Or knotted in the resinous pine + Raise goblin cry and hue, + While through the smoke his eyeballs shine, + A sooty red and blue. + + At last I hear him, nearing dawn, + Take up his roaring broom, + And sweep wild leaves from wood and lawn, + And from the heavens the gloom, + To show the gaunt world lying wan, + And morn's cold rose a-bloom. + + + + + THE WIND OF SUMMER + + + From the hills and far away + All the long, warm summer day + Comes the wind and seems to say: + + "Come, oh, come! and let us go + Where the meadows bend and blow, + Waving with the white-tops' snow. + + "'Neath the hyssop-colored sky + 'Mid the meadows we will lie + Watching the white clouds roll by; + + "While your hair my hands shall press + With a cooling tenderness + Till your grief grows less and less. + + "Come, oh, come! and let us roam + Where the rock-cut waters comb + Flowing crystal into foam. + + "Under trees whose trunks are brown, + On the banks that violets crown, + We will watch the fish flash down; + + "While your ear my voice shall soothe + With a whisper soft and smooth + Till your care shall wax uncouth. + + "Come! where forests, line on line, + Armies of the oak and pine, + Scale the hills and shout and shine. + + "We will wander, hand in hand, + Ways where tall the toadstools stand, + Mile-stones white of Fairyland. + + "While your eyes my lips shall kiss, + Dewy as a wild rose is, + Till they gaze on naught but bliss. + + "On the meadows you will hear, + Leaning low your spirit ear, + Cautious footsteps drawing near. + + "You will deem it but a bee, + Murmuring soft and sleepily, + Till your inner sight shall see + + "'Tis a presence passing slow, + All its shining hair ablow, + Through the white-tops' tossing snow. + + "By the waters, if you will, + And your inmost soul be still, + Melody your ears shall fill. + + "You will deem it but the stream + Rippling onward in a dream, + Till upon your gaze shall gleam + + "Arm of spray and throat of foam-- + 'Tis a spirit there aroam + Where the radiant waters comb. + + "In the forest, if you heed, + You shall hear a magic reed + Sow sweet notes like silver seed. + + "You will deem your ears have heard + Stir of tree or song of bird, + Till your startled eyes are blurred + + "By a vision, instant seen, + Naked gold and beryl green, + Glimmering bright the boughs between. + + "Follow me! and you shall see + Wonder-worlds of mystery + That are only known to me!" + + Thus outside my city door + Speaks the Wind its wildwood lore, + Speaks and lo! I go once more. + + + + + THE SPIRIT OF THE FOREST SPRING + + + Over the rocks she trails her locks, + Her mossy locks that drip, drip, drip; + Her sparkling eyes smile at the skies + In friendship-wise and fellowship; + While the gleam and glance of her countenance + Lull into trance the woodland places, + As over the rocks she trails her locks, + Her dripping locks that the long fern graces. + + She pours clear ooze from her heart's cool cruse, + Its crystal cruse that drips, drips, drips; + And all the day its diamond spray + Is heard to play from her finger-tips; + And the slight soft sound makes haunted ground + Of the woods around that the sunlight laces, + As she pours clear ooze from her heart's cool cruse, + Its dripping cruse that no man traces. + + She swims and swims with glimmering limbs, + With lucid limbs that drip, drip, drip; + Where beechen boughs build a leafy house + For her form to drowse or her feet to trip; + And the liquid beat of her rippling feet + Makes three-times sweet the forest mazes, + As she swims and swims with glimmering limbs, + With dripping limbs through the twilight's hazes. + + Then wrapped in deeps of the wild she sleeps, + She whispering sleeps and drips, drips, drips; + Where moon and mist wreathe neck and wrist, + While, starry-whist, through the night she slips; + And the heavenly dream of her soul makes gleam + The falls that stream and the foam that races, + As wrapped in deeps of the wild she sleeps, + She dripping sleeps or starward gazes. + + + + + TO THE LEAF-CRICKET + + + I + + Small twilight singer + Of dew and mist: thou ghost-gray, gossamer winger + Of dusk's dim glimmer, + How cool thy note sounds; how thy wings of shimmer + Vibrate, soft-sighing, + Meseems, for Summer that is dead or dying. + I stand and listen, + And at thy song the garden-beds, that glisten + With rose and lily, + Seem touched with sadness; and the tuberose chilly, + Breathing around its cold and colorless breath, + Fills the pale evening with wan hints of death. + + + II + + I see thee quaintly + Beneath the leaf; thy shell-shaped winglets faintly-- + As thin as spangle + Of cobwebbed rain--held up at airy angle; + I hear thy tinkle, + Thy fairy notes, the silvery stillness sprinkle; + Investing wholly + The moonlight with divinest melancholy: + Until, in seeming, + I see the Spirit of the Summer dreaming + Amid her ripened orchards, apple-strewn, + Her great, grave eyes fixed on the harvest-moon. + + + III + + As dew-drops beady, + As mist minute, thy notes ring low and reedy: + The vaguest vapor + Of melody, now near; now, like some taper + Of sound, far fading-- + Thou will-o'-wisp of music aye evading. + Among the bowers, + The fog-washed stalks of Autumn's weeds and flowers, + By hill and hollow, + I hear thy murmur and in vain I follow-- + Thou jack-o'-lantern voice, thou elfin cry, + Thou dirge, that tellest Beauty she must die. + + + IV + + And when the frantic + Wild winds of Autumn with the dead leaves antic; + And walnuts scatter + The mire of lanes; and dropping acorns patter + In grove and forest, + Like some frail grief, with the rude blast thou warrest, + Sending thy slender + Far cry against the gale, that, rough, untender, + Untouched of sorrow, + Sweeps thee aside, where, haply, I to-morrow + Shall find thee lying, tiny, cold and crushed, + Thy weak wings folded and thy music hushed. + + + + + THE OWLET + + + I + + When dusk is drowned in drowsy dreams, + And slow the hues of sunset die; + When firefly and moth go by, + And in still streams the new-moon gleams, + A sickle in the sky; + Then from the hills there comes a cry, + The owlet's cry; + A shivering voice that sobs and screams, + That, frightened, screams: + + "Who is it, who is it, who? + Who rides through the dusk and dew, + With a pair o' horns, + As thin as thorns, + And face a bubble blue? + Who, who, who! + Who is it, who is it, who?" + + + II + + When night has dulled the lily's white, + And opened wide the primrose eyes; + When pale mists rise and veil the skies, + And 'round the height in whispering flight + The night-wind sounds and sighs; + Then in the woods again it cries, + The owlet cries; + A shivering voice that calls in fright, + In maundering fright: + + "Who is it, who is it, who? + Who walks with a shuffling shoe, + 'Mid the gusty trees, + With a face none sees, + And a form as ghostly too? + Who, who, who! + Who is it, who is it, who?" + + + III + + When midnight leans a listening ear + And tinkles on her insect lutes; + When 'mid the roots the cricket flutes, + And marsh and mere, now far, now near, + A jack-o'-lantern foots; + Then o'er the pool again it hoots, + The owlet hoots; + A voice that shivers as with fear, + That cries in fear: + + "Who is it, who is it, who? + Who creeps with his glow-worm crew + Above the mire + With a corpse-light fire, + As only dead men do? + Who, who, who! + Who is it, who is it, who?" + + + + + VINE AND SYCAMORE + + + I + + Here where a tree and its wild liana, + Leaning over the streamlet, grow, + Once a nymph, like the moon'd Diana, + Sat in the ages long ago. + Sat with a mortal with whom she had mated, + Sat and laughed with a mortal youth, + Ere he of the forest, the god who hated, + Saw and changed to a form uncouth.... + + + II + + Once in the woods she had heard a shepherd, + Heard a reed in a golden glade; + Followed, and clad in the skin of a leopard, + Found him fluting within the shade. + Found him sitting with bare brown shoulder, + Lithe and strong as a sapling oak, + And leaning over a mossy boulder, + Love in her wildwood heart awoke. + + + III + + White she was as a dogwood flower, + Pinkly white as a wild-crab bloom, + Sweetly white as a hawtree bower + Full of dew and the May's perfume. + He who saw her above him burning, + Beautiful, naked, in light arrayed, + Deemed her Diana, and from her turning, + Leapt to his feet and fled afraid. + + + IV + + Far she followed and called and pleaded, + Ever he fled with never a look; + Fled, till he came to this spot, deep-reeded, + Came to the bank of this forest brook. + Here for a moment he stopped and listened, + Heard in her voice her heart's despair, + Saw in her eyes the love that glistened, + Sank on her bosom and rested there. + + + V + + Close to her beauty she strained and pressed him, + Held and bound him with kiss on kiss; + Soft with her arms and her lips caressed him, + Sweeter of touch than a blossom is. + Spoke to his heart, and with sweet persuasion + Mastered his soul till its fear was flown; + Spoke to his soul till its mortal evasion + Vanished, and body and soul were her own. + + + VI + + Many a day had they met and mated, + Many a day by this woodland brook, + When he of the forest, the god who hated, + Came on their love and changed with a look. + There on the shore, while they joyed and jested, + He in the shadows, unseen, espied + Her, like the goddess Diana breasted, + Him, like Endymion by her side. + + + VII + + Lo! at a word, at a sign, their folded + Limbs and bodies assumed new form, + Hers to the shape of a tree were molded, + His to a vine with surrounding arm.... + So they stand with their limbs enlacing, + Nymph and mortal, upon this shore, + He forever a vine embracing + Her a silvery sycamore. + + + + + THE POET + + + He stands above all worldly schism, + And, gazing over life's abysm, + Beholds within the starry range + Of heaven laws of death and change, + That, through his soul's prophetic prism, + Are turned to rainbows wild and strange. + + Through nature is his hope made surer + Of that ideal, his allurer, + By whom his life is upward drawn + To mount pale pinnacles of dawn, + 'Mid which all that is fairer, purer + Of love and lore it comes upon. + + An alkahest, that makes gold metal + Of dross, his mind is--where one petal + Of one wild-rose will all outweigh + The piled-up facts of everyday-- + Where commonplaces, there that settle, + Are changed to things of heavenly ray. + + He climbs by steps of stars and flowers, + Companioned of the dreaming hours, + And sets his feet in pastures where + No merely mortal feet may fare; + And higher than the stars he towers + Though lowlier than the flowers there. + + His comrades are his own high fancies + And thoughts in which his soul romances; + And every part of heaven or earth + He visits, lo, assumes new worth; + And touched with loftier traits and trances + Re-shines as with a lovelier birth. + + He is the play, likewise the player; + The word that's said, also the sayer; + And in the books of heart and head + There is no thing he has not read; + Of time and tears he is the weigher, + And mouthpiece 'twixt the quick and dead. + + He dies: but, mounting ever higher, + Wings Phoenix-like from out his pyre + Above our mortal day and night, + Clothed on with sempiternal light; + And raimented in thought's far fire + Flames on in everlasting flight. + + Unseen, yet seen, on heights of visions, + Above all praise and world derisions, + His spirit and his deathless brood + Of dreams fare on, a multitude, + While on the pillar of great missions + His name and place are granite-hewed. + + + + + EVENING ON THE FARM + + + From out the hills, where twilight stands, + Above the shadowy pasture lands, + With strained and strident cry, + Beneath pale skies that sunset bands, + The bull-bats fly. + + A cloud hangs over, strange of shape, + And, colored like the half-ripe grape, + Seems some uneven stain + On heaven's azure, thin as crape, + And blue as rain. + + By ways, that sunset's sardonyx + O'erflares, and gates the farmboy clicks, + Through which the cattle came, + The mullein stalks seem giant wicks + Of downy flame. + + From woods no glimmer enters in, + Above the streams that wandering win + From out the violet hills, + Those haunters of the dusk begin, + The whippoorwills. + + Adown the dark the firefly marks + Its flight in golden-emerald sparks; + And, loosened from his chain, + The shaggy watchdog bounds and barks, + And barks again. + + Each breeze brings scents of hill-heaped hay; + And now an owlet, far away, + Cries twice or thrice, "Twohoo;" + And cool dim moths of mottled gray + Flit through the dew. + + The silence sounds its frog-bassoon, + Where on the woodland creek's lagoon, + Pale as a ghostly girl + Lost 'mid the trees, looks down the moon + With face of pearl. + + Within the shed where logs, late hewed, + Smell forest-sweet, and chips of wood + Make blurs of white and brown, + The brood-hen cuddles her warm brood + Of teetering down. + + The clattering guineas in the tree + Din for a time; and quietly + The henhouse, near the fence, + Sleeps, save for some brief rivalry + Of cocks and hens. + + A cow-bell tinkles by the rails, + Where, streaming white in foaming pails, + Milk makes an uddery sound; + While overhead the black bat trails + Around and 'round. + + The night is still. The slow cows chew + A drowsy cud. The bird that flew + And sang is in its nest. + It is the time of falling dew, + Of dreams and rest. + + The brown bees sleep; and 'round the walk, + The garden path, from stalk to stalk + The bungling beetle booms, + Where two soft shadows stand and talk + Among the blooms. + + The stars are thick: the light is dead + That dyed the West: and Drowsyhead, + Tuning his cricket-pipe, + Nods, and some apple, round and red, + Drops over ripe. + + Now down the road, that shambles by, + A window, shining like an eye + Through climbing rose and gourd, + Shows where Toil sups and these things lie, + His heart and hoard. + + + + + THE BROOK + + + To it the forest tells + The mystery that haunts its heart and folds + Its form in cogitation deep, that holds + The shadow of each myth that dwells + In nature--be it Nymph or Fay or Faun-- + And whispering of them to the dales and dells, + It wanders on and on. + + To it the heaven shows + The secret of its soul; true images + Of dreams that form its aspect; and with these + Reflected in its countenance it goes, + With pictures of the skies, the dusk and dawn, + Within its breast, as every blossom knows, + For them to gaze upon. + + Through it the world-soul sends + Its heart's creating pulse that beats and sings + The music of maternity whence springs + All life; and shaping earthly ends, + From the deep sources of the heavens drawn, + Planting its ways with beauty, on it wends, + On and forever on. + + + + + SUMMER NOONTIDE + + + The slender snail clings to the leaf, + Gray on its silvered underside: + And slowly, slowlier than the snail, with brief + Bright steps, whose ripening touch foretells the sheaf, + Her warm hands berry-dyed, + Comes down the tanned Noontide. + + The pungent fragrance of the mint + And pennyroyal drench her gown, + That leaves long shreds of trumpet-blossom tint + Among the thorns, and everywhere the glint + Of gold and white and brown + Her flowery steps waft down. + + The leaves, like hands with emerald veined, + Along her way try their wild best + To reach the jewel--whose hot hue was drained + From some rich rose that all the June contained-- + The butterfly, soft pressed + Upon her sunny breast. + + Her shawl, the lace-like elder bloom, + She hangs upon the hillside brake, + Smelling of warmth and of her breast's perfume, + And, lying in the citron-colored gloom + Beside the lilied lake, + She stares the buds awake. + + Or, with a smile, through watery deeps + She leads the oaring turtle's legs; + Or guides the crimson fish, that swims and sleeps, + From pad to pad, from which the young frog leaps; + And to its nest's green eggs + The bird that pleads and begs. + + Then 'mid the fields of unmown hay + She shows the bees where sweets are found; + And points the butterflies, at airy play, + And dragonflies, along the water-way, + Where honeyed flowers abound + For them to flicker 'round. + + Or where ripe apples pelt with gold + Some barn--around which, coned with snow, + The wild-potato blooms--she mounts its old + Mossed roof, and through warped sides, the knots have holed, + Lets her long glances glow + Into the loft below. + + To show the mud-wasp at its cell + Slenderly busy; swallows, too, + Packing against a beam their nest's clay shell; + And crouching in the dark the owl as well + With all her downy crew + Of owlets gray of hue. + + These are her joys, and until dusk + Lounging she walks where reapers reap, + From sultry raiment shaking scents of musk, + Rustling the corn within its silken husk, + And driving down heav'n's deep + White herds of clouds like sheep. + + + + + HEAT + + + I + + Now is it as if Spring had never been, + And Winter but a memory and dream, + Here where the Summer stands, her lap of green + Heaped high with bloom and beam, + Among her blackberry-lilies, low that lean + To kiss her feet; or, freckle-browed, that stare + Upon the dragonfly which, slimly seen, + Like a blue jewel flickering in her hair, + Sparkles above them there. + + + II + + Knee-deep among the tepid pools the cows + Chew a slow cud or switch a slower tail. + Half-sunk in sleep beneath the beechen boughs, + Where thin the wood-gnats ail. + From bloom to bloom the languid butterflies drowse; + The sleepy bees make hardly any sound; + The only things the sunrays can arouse, + It seems, are two black beetles rolling 'round + Upon the dusty ground. + + + III + + Within its channel glares the creek and shrinks, + Beneath whose rocks the furtive crawfish hides + In stagnant places, where the green frog blinks, + And water-spider glides. + + Far hotter seems it for the bird that drinks, + The startled kingfisher that screams and flies; + Hotter and lonelier for the purple pinks + Of weeds that bloom, whose sultry perfumes rise + Stifling the swooning skies. + + + IV + + From ragweed fallows, rye fields, heaped with sheaves, + From blistering rocks, no moss or lichens crust, + And from the road, where every hoof-stroke heaves + A cloud of burning dust, + The hotness quivers, making limp the leaves, + That loll like tongues of panting hounds. The heat + Is a wan wimple that the Summer weaves, + A veil, in which she wraps, as in a sheet, + The shriveling corn and wheat. + + + V + + Furious, incessant in the weeds and briers + The sawing weed-bugs sing; and, heat-begot, + The grasshoppers, so many strident wires, + Staccato fiercely hot: + A lash of whirling sound that never tires, + The locust flails the noon, where harnessed Thirst, + Beside the road-spring, many a shod hoof mires, + Into the trough thrusts his hot head, immersed, + 'Round which cool bubbles burst. + + + VI + + The sad, sweet voice of some wood-spirit who + Laments while watching a loved oak tree die, + From the deep forest comes the wood-dove's coo. + A long, lost, lonely cry. + Oh, for a breeze, a mighty wind to woo + The woods to stormy laughter; sow like grain + The world with freshness of invisible dew. + And pile above far, fevered hill and plain. + Vast bastions black with rain. + + + + + JULY + + + Now 'tis the time when, tall, + The long blue torches of the bellflower gleam + Among the trees; and, by the wooded stream. + In many a fragrant ball. + Blooms of the button-bush fall. + + Let us go forth and seek + Woods where the wild plums redden and the beech + Plumps its packed burs: and, swelling, just in reach. + The pawpaw, emerald sleek. + Ripens along the creek. + + Now 'tis the time when ways + Of glimmering green flaunt white the misty plumes + Of the black-cohosh; and through bramble glooms, + A blur of orange rays, + The butterfly-blossoms blaze. + + Let us go forth and hear + The spiral music that the locusts beat, + And that small spray of sound, so grassy sweet, + Dear to a country ear, + The cricket's summer cheer. + + Now golden celandine + Is hairy hung with silvery sacks of seeds. + And bugled o'er with freckled gold, like beads. + Beneath the fox-grape vine, + The jewel-weed's blossoms shine. + + Let us go forth and see + The dragon- and the butterfly, like gems, + Spangling the sunbeams; and the clover stems, + Weighed down by many a bee, + Nodding mellifluously. + + Now morns are full of song; + The catbird and the redbird and the jay + Upon the hilltops rouse the rosy day, + Who, dewy, blithe, and strong, + Lures their wild wings along. + + Now noons are full of dreams; + The clouds of heaven and the wandering breeze + Follow a vision; and the flowers and trees, + The hills and fields and streams, + Are lapped in mystic gleams. + + The nights are full of love; + The stars and moon take up the golden tale + Of the sunk sun, and passionate and pale, + Mixing their fires above, + Grow eloquent thereof. + + Such days are like a sigh + That beauty heaves from a full heart of bliss: + Such nights are like the sweetness of a kiss + On lips that half deny, + The warm lips of July. + + + + + TO THE LOCUST + + + Thou pulse of hotness, who, with reed-like breast, + Makest meridian music, long and loud, + Accentuating summer!--dost thy best + To make the sunbeams fiercer, and to crowd + With lonesomeness the long, close afternoon + When Labor leans, swart-faced and beady browed, + Upon his sultry scythe--thou tangible tune + Of heat, whose waves incessantly arise + Quivering and clear beneath the cloudless skies. + + Thou singest, and upon his haggard hills + Drouth yawns and rubs his heavy eyes and wakes; + Brushes the hot hair from his face; and fills + The land with death as sullenly he takes + Downward his dusty way: 'midst woods and fields + At every pool his burning thirst he slakes: + No grove so deep, no bank so high it shields + A spring from him; no creek evades his eye; + He needs but look and they are withered dry. + + Thou singest, and thy song is as a spell + Of somnolence to charm the land with sleep; + A thorn of sound that pierces dale and dell, + Diffusing slumber over vale and steep. + + Sleepy the forest, nodding sleepy boughs; + The pastures sleepy with their sleepy sheep; + Sleepy the creek where sleepily the cows + Stand knee-deep: and the very heaven seems + Sleepy and lost in undetermined dreams. + + Art thou a rattle that Monotony, + Summer's dull nurse, old sister of slow Time, + Shakes for Day's peevish pleasure, who in glee + Takes its discordant music for sweet rhyme? + Or oboe that the Summer Noontide plays, + Sitting with Ripeness 'neath the orchard-tree, + Trying repeatedly the same shrill phrase, + Until the musky peach with drowsiness + Drops, and the hum of bees grows less and less? + + + + + YOUNG SEPTEMBER + + + I + + With a look and a laugh where the stream was flowing, + September led me along the land; + Where the golden-rod and lobelia, glowing, + Seemed burning torches within her hand. + And faint as the thistle's or milk-weed's feather + I glimpsed her form through the sparkling weather. + + + II + + Now 'twas her hand and now her hair + That tossed me welcome everywhere; + That lured me onward through the stately rooms + Of forest, hung and carpeted with glooms, + And windowed wide with azure, doored with green. + Through which rich glimmers of her robe were seen-- + Now, like some deep marsh-mallow, rosy gold; + Now, like the great Joe-Pye-weed, fold on fold + Of heavy mauve; and now, like the intense + Massed iron-weed, a purple opulence. + + + III + + Along the bank in a wild procession + Of gold and sapphire the blossoms blew; + And borne on the breeze came their soft confession + In syllables musk of honey and dew; + In words unheard that their lips kept saying, + Sweet as the lips of children praying. + + + IV + + And so, meseemed, I heard them tell + How here her loving glance once fell + Upon this bank, and from its azure grew + The ageratum mist-flower's happy hue: + How from her kiss, as crimson as the dawn, + The cardinal-flow'r drew its vermilion; + And from her hair's blond touch th' elecampane + Evolved the glory of its golden rain; + White from her starry footsteps, redolent, + The aster pearled its flowery firmament. + + + + + UNDER THE HUNTER'S MOON + + + White from her chrysalis of cloud, + The moth-like moon swings upward through the night; + And all the bee-like stars that crowd + The hollow hive of heav'n wane in her light. + + Along the distance, folds of mist + Hang frost-pale, ridging all the dark with gray; + Tinting the trees with amethyst, + Touching with pearl and purple every spray. + + All night the stealthy frost and fog + Conspire to slay the rich-robed weeds and flowers: + To strip of wealth the woods, and clog + With piled-up gold of leaves the creek that cowers. + + I seem to see their Spirits stand, + Molded of moonlight, faint of form and face, + Now reaching high a chilly hand + To pluck some walnut from its spicy place: + + Now with fine fingers, phantom-cold, + Splitting the wahoo's pods of rose, and thin + The bittersweet's balls o' gold, + To show the coal-red berries packed within: + + Now on dim threads of gossamer + Stringing pale pearls of moisture; necklacing + The flow'rs; and spreading cobweb fur, + Crystaled with stardew, over everything: + + While 'neath the moon, with moon-white feet, + They go and, chill, a moon-soft music draw + From wan leaf-cricket flutes--the sweet, + Sad dirge of Autumn dying in the shaw. + + + + + RAIN IN THE WOODS + + + When on the leaves the rain persists, + And every gust brings showers down; + When all the woodland smokes with mists, + I take the old road out of town + Into the hills through which it twists. + + I find the vale where catnip grows, + Where boneset blooms, with moisture bowed; + The vale through which the red creek flows, + Turbid with hill-washed clay, and loud + As some wild horn a hunter blows. + + Around the root the beetle glides, + A living beryl; and the ant, + Large, agate-red, a garnet, slides + Beneath the rock; and every plant + Is roof for some frail thing that hides. + + Like knots against the trunks of trees + The lichen-colored moths are pressed; + And, wedged in hollow blooms, the bees + Seem clots of pollen; in its nest + The wasp has crawled and lies at ease. + + The locust harsh, that sharply saws + The silence of the summer noon; + The katydid that thinly draws + Its fine file o'er the bars of moon; + And grasshopper that drills each pause: + + The mantis, long-clawed, furtive, lean-- + Fierce feline of the insect hordes-- + And dragonfly, gauze-winged and green, + Beneath the wild-grape's leaves and gourd's, + Have housed themselves and rest unseen. + + The butterfly and forest-bird + Are huddled on the same gnarled bough, + From which, like some rain-voweled word + That dampness hoarsely utters now, + The tree-toad's voice is vaguely heard. + + I crouch and listen; and again + The woods are filled with phantom forms-- + With shapes, grotesque in mystic train, + That rise and reach to me cool arms + Of mist; the wandering wraiths of rain. + + I see them come; fantastic, fair; + Chill, mushroom-colored: sky and earth + Grow ghostly with their floating hair + And trailing limbs, that have their birth + In wetness--fungi of the air. + + O wraiths of rain! O ghosts of mist! + Still fold me, hold me, and pursue! + Still let my lips by yours be kissed! + Still draw me with your hands of dew + Unto the tryst, the dripping tryst. + + + + + IN THE LANE + + + When the hornet hangs in the hollyhock, + And the brown bee drones i' the rose, + And the west is a red-streaked four-o'-clock, + And summer is near its close-- + It's--Oh, for the gate and the locust lane + And dusk and dew and home again! + + When the katydid sings and the cricket cries, + And ghosts of the mists ascend, + And the evening-star is a lamp i' the skies, + And summer is near its end-- + It's--Oh, for the fence and the leafy lane, + And the twilight peace and the tryst again! + + When the owlet hoots in the dogwood-tree, + That leans to the rippling Run, + And the wind is a wildwood melody, + And summer is almost done-- + It's--Oh, for the bridge and the bramble lane, + And the fragrant hush and her hands again! + + When fields smell moist with the dewy hay, + And woods are cool and wan, + And a path for dreams is the Milky-way, + And summer is nearly gone-- + It's--Oh, for the rock and the woodland lane + And the silence and stars and her lips again! + + When the weight of the apples breaks down the boughs, + And musk-melons split with sweet, + And the moon is a-bloom in the Heaven's house, + And summer has spent its heat-- + It's--Oh, for the lane, the trysting lane, + And the deep-mooned night and her love again! + + + + + A FOREST IDYL + + + I + + Beneath an old beech-tree + They sat together, + Fair as a flower was she + Of summer weather. + They spoke of life and love, + While, through the boughs above, + The sunlight, like a dove, + Dropped many a feather. + + + II + + And there the violet, + The bluet near it, + Made blurs of azure wet-- + As if some spirit, + Or woodland dream, had gone + Sprinkling the earth with dawn, + When only Fay and Faun + Could see or hear it. + + + III + + She with her young, sweet face + And eyes gray-beaming, + Made of that forest place + A spot for dreaming: + A spot for Oreads + To smooth their nut-brown braids, + For Dryads of the glades + To dance in, gleaming. + + + IV + + So dim the place, so blest. + One had not wondered + Had Dian's mooned breast + The deep leaves sundered, + And there on them awhile + The goddess deigned to smile. + While down some forest aisle + The far hunt thundered. + + + V + + I deem that hour perchance + Was but a mirror + To show them Earth's romance + And draw them nearer: + A mirror where, meseems. + All that this Earth-life dreams, + All loveliness that gleams, + Their souls saw clearer. + + + VI + + Beneath an old beech-tree + They dreamed of blisses; + Fair as a flower was she + That summer kisses: + They spoke of dreams and days, + Of love that goes and stays, + Of all for which life prays, + Ah me! and misses. + + + + + UNDER THE ROSE + + + He told a story to her, + A story old yet new-- + And was it of the Faery Folk + That dance along the dew? + + The night was hung with silence + As a room is hung with cloth, + And soundless, through the rose-sweet hush, + Swooned dim the down-white moth. + + Along the east a shimmer, + A tenuous breath of flame, + From which, as from a bath of light, + Nymph-like, the girl-moon came. + + And pendent in the purple + Of heaven, like fireflies, + Bubbles of gold the great stars blew + From windows of the skies. + + He told a story to her, + A story full of dreams-- + And was it of the Elfin things + That haunt the thin moonbeams? + + Upon the hill a thorn-tree, + Crooked and gnarled and gray, + Against the moon seemed some crutch'd hag + Dragging a child away. + + And in the vale a runnel, + That dripped from shelf to shelf, + Seemed, in the night, a woodland witch + Who muttered to herself. + + Along the land a zephyr, + Whose breath was wild perfume, + That seemed a sorceress who wove + Sweet spells of beam and bloom. + + He told a story to her, + A story young yet old-- + And was it of the mystic things + Men's eyes shall ne'er behold? + + They heard the dew drip faintly + From out the green-cupped leaf; + They heard the petals of the rose + Unfolding from their sheaf. + + They saw the wind light-footing + The waters into sheen; + They saw the starlight kiss to sleep + The blossoms on the green. + + They heard and saw these wonders; + These things they saw and heard; + And other things within the heart + For which there is no word. + + He told a story to her, + The story men call Love, + Whose echoes fill the ages past, + And the world ne'er tires of. + + + + + IN AUTUMN + + + I + + Sunflowers wither and lilies die, + Poppies are pods of seeds; + The first red leaves on the pathway lie, + Like blood of a heart that bleeds. + + Weary alway will it be to-day, + Weary and wan and wet; + Dawn and noon will the clouds hang gray, + And the autumn wind will sigh and say, + "_He comes not yet, not yet. + Weary alway, alway!_" + + + II + + Hollyhocks bend all tattered and torn, + Marigolds all are gone; + The last pale rose lies all forlorn, + Like love that is trampled on. + + Weary, ah me! to-night will be, + Weary and wild and hoar; + Rain and mist will blow from the sea, + And the wind will sob in the autumn tree, + "_He comes no more, no more. + Weary, ah me! ah me!_" + + + + + EPIPHANY + + + There is nothing that eases my heart so much + As the wind that blows from the purple hills; + 'Tis a hand of balsam whose healing touch + Unburdens my bosom of ills. + + There is nothing that causes my soul to rejoice + Like the sunset flaming without a flaw: + 'Tis a burning bush whence God's own voice + Addresses my spirit with awe. + + There is nothing that hallows my mind, meseems, + Like the night with its moon and its stars above; + 'Tis a mystical lily whose golden gleams + Fulfill my being with love. + + There is nothing, no, nothing, we see and feel. + That speaks to our souls some beautiful thought, + That was not created to help us, and heal + Our lives that are overwrought. + + + + + LIFE + + + I + + PESSIMIST + + There is never a thing we dream or do + But was dreamed and done in the ages gone; + Everything's old; there is nothing that's new, + And so it will be while the world goes on. + + The thoughts we think have been thought before; + The deeds we do have long been done; + We pride ourselves on our love and lore + And both are as old as the moon and sun. + + We strive and struggle and swink and sweat, + And the end for each is one and the same; + Time and the sun and the frost and wet + Will wear from its pillar the greatest name. + + No answer comes for our prayer or curse, + No word replies though we shriek in air; + Ever the taciturn universe + Stretches unchanged for our curse or prayer. + + With our mind's small light in the dark we crawl,-- + Glow-worm glimmers that creep about,-- + Tilt the Power that shaped us, over us all + Poises His foot and treads us out. + + Unasked He fashions us out of clay, + A little water, a little dust, + And then in our holes He thrusts us away, + With never a word, to rot and rust. + + 'Tis a sorry play with a sorry plot, + This life of hate and of lust and pain, + Where we play our parts and are soon forgot, + And all that we do is done in vain. + + + II + + OPTIMIST + + There is never a dream but it shall come true, + And never a deed but was wrought by plan; + And life is filled with the strange and new, + And ever has been since the world began. + + As mind develops and soul matures + These two shall parent Earth's mightier acts; + Love is a fact, and 'tis love endures + 'Though the world make wreck of all other facts. + + Through thought alone shall our Age obtain + Above all Ages gone before; + The tribes of sloth, of brawn, not brain, + Are the tribes that perish, are known no more. + + Within ourselves is a voice of Awe, + And a hand that points to Balanced Scales; + The one is Love and the other Law, + And their presence alone it is avails. + + For every shadow about our way + There is a glory of moon and sun; + But the hope within us hath more of ray + Than the light of the sun and moon in one. + + Behind all being a purpose lies, + Undeviating as God hath willed; + And he alone it is who dies, + Who leaves that purpose unfulfilled. + + Life is an epic the Master sings, + Whose theme is Man, and whose music, Soul, + Where each is a word in the Song of Things, + That shall roll on while the ages roll. + + + + + NEVER + + (Song) + + + Love hath no place in her, + Though in her bosom be + Love-thoughts and dreams that stir + Longings that know not me: + Love hath no place in her, + No place for me. + + Never within her eyes + Do I the love-light see; + Never her soul replies + To the sad soul in me: + Never with soul and eyes + Speaks she to me. + + She is a star, a rose, + I but a moth, a bee; + High in her heaven she glows, + Blooms far away from me: + She is a star, a rose, + Never for me. + + Why will I think of her + To my heart's misery? + Dreaming how sweet it were + Had she a thought of me: + Why will I think of her! + Why, why, ah me! + + + + + MEETING IN THE WOODS + + + Through ferns and moss the path wound to + A hollow where the touchmenots + Swung horns of honey filled with dew; + And where--like foot-prints--violets blue + And bluets made sweet sapphire blots, + 'Twas there that she had passed he knew. + + The grass, the very wilderness + On either side, breathed rapture of + Her passage: 'twas her hand or dress + That touched some tree--a slight caress-- + That made the wood-birds sing above; + Her step that made the flowers up-press. + + He hurried, till across his way, + Foam-footed, bounding through the wood, + A brook, like some wild girl at play, + Went laughing loud its roundelay; + And there upon its bank she stood, + A sunbeam clad in woodland gray. + + And when she saw him, all her face + Grew to a wildrose by the stream; + And to his breast a moment's space + He gathered her; and all the place + Seemed conscious of some happy dream + Come true to add to Earth its grace. + + Some joy, on which Heav'n was intent-- + For which God made the world--the bliss, + The love, that raised her innocent + Pure face to his that, smiling, bent + And sealed confession with a kiss-- + Life needs no other testament. + + + + + A MAID WHO DIED OLD + + + Frail, shrunken face, so pinched and worn, + That life has carved with care and doubt! + So weary waiting, night and morn, + For that which never came about! + Pale lamp, so utterly forlorn. + In which God's light at last is out. + + Gray hair, that lies so thin and prim + On either side the sunken brows! + And soldered eyes, so deep and dim, + No word of man could now arouse! + And hollow hands, so virgin slim, + Forever clasped in silent vows! + + Poor breasts! that God designed for love, + For baby lips to kiss and press! + That never felt, yet dreamed thereof, + The human touch, the child caress-- + That lie like shriveled blooms above + The heart's long-perished happiness. + + O withered body, Nature gave + For purposes of death and birth, + That never knew, and could but crave + Those things perhaps that make life worth-- + Rest now, alas! within the grave, + Sad shell that served no end of Earth. + + + + + COMMUNICANTS + + + Who knows the things they dream, alas! + Or feel, who lie beneath the ground? + Perhaps the flowers, the leaves, and grass + That close them round. + + In spring the violets may spell + The moods of them we know not of; + Or lilies sweetly syllable + Their thoughts of love + + Haply, in summer, dew and scent + Of all they feel may be a part; + Each red rose be the testament + Of some rich heart. + + The winds of fall be utterance, + Perhaps, of saddest things they say; + Wild leaves may word some dead romance + In some dim way. + + In winter all their sleep profound + Through frost may speak to grass and stream; + The snow may be the silent sound + Of all they dream. + + + + + THE DEAD DAY + + + The West builds high a sepulchre + Of cloudy granite and of gold. + Where twilight's priestly hours inter + The day like some great king of old, + + A censer, rimmed with silver fire, + The new moon swings above his tomb; + While, organ-stops of God's own choir, + Star after star throbs in the gloom. + + And night draws near, the sadly sweet-- + A nun whose face is calm and fair-- + And kneeling at the dead day's feet + Her soul goes up in silent prayer. + + In prayer, we feel through dewy gleam + And flowery fragrance, and--above + All Earth--the ecstasy and dream + That haunt the mystic heart of love. + + + + + KNIGHT-ERRANT + + + Onward he gallops through enchanted gloom. + The spectres of the forest, dark and dim, + And shadows of vast death environ him-- + Onward he spurs victorious over doom. + Before his eyes that love's far fires illume-- + Where courage sits, impregnable and grim-- + The form and features of _her_ beauty swim, + Beckoning him on with looks that fears consume. + The thought of her distress, her lips to kiss, + Mails him with triple might; and so at last + To Lust's huge keep he comes; its giant wall, + Wild-towering, frowning from the precipice; + And through its gate, borne like a bugle blast, + O'er night and hell he thunders to his all. + + + + + THE END OF SUMMER + + + Pods are the poppies, and slim spires of pods + The hollyhocks; the balsam's pearly bredes + Of rose-stained snow are little sacs of seeds + Collapsing at a touch; the lote, that sods + The pond with green, has changed its flowers to rods + And discs of vesicles; and all the weeds, + Around the sleepy water and its reeds. + Are one white smoke of seeded silk that nods. + Summer is dead, ay me! sweet Summer's dead! + The sunset clouds have built her funeral pyre, + Through which, e'en now, runs subterranean fire: + While from the East, as from a garden bed, + Mist-vined, the Dusk lifts her broad moon--like some + Great golden melon--saying, "Fall has come." + + + + + LIGHT AND WIND + + + Where, through the leaves of myriad forest trees, + The daylight falls, beryl and chrysoprase, + The glamour and the glimmer of its rays + Seem visible music, tangible melodies: + Light that is music; music that one sees-- + Wagnerian music--where forever sways + The spirit of romance, and gods and fays + Take form, clad on with dreams and mysteries. + And now the wind's transmuting necromance + Touches the light and makes it fall and rise, + Vocal, a harp of multitudinous waves + That speaks as ocean speaks--an utterance + Of far-off whispers, mermaid-murmuring sighs-- + Pelagian, vast, deep-down in coral caves. + + + + + SUPERSTITION + + + In the waste places, in the dreadful night, + When the wood whispers like a wandering mind, + And silence sits and listens to the wind, + Or, 'mid the rocks, to some wild torrent's flight; + Bat-browed thou wadest with thy wisp of light + Among black pools the moon can never find; + Or, owlet-eyed, thou hootest to the blind + Deep darkness from some cave or haunted height. + He who beholds but once thy fearsome face, + Never again shall walk alone! but wan + And terrible attendants shall be his-- + Unutterable things that have no place + In God or Beauty--that compel him on, + Against all hope, where endless horror is. + + + + + UNCALLED + + + As one, who, journeying westward with the sun, + Beholds at length from the up-towering hills, + Far off, a land unspeakable beauty fills, + Circean peaks and vales of Avalon: + And, sinking weary, watches, one by one, + The big seas beat between; and knows it skills + No more to try; that now, as Heaven wills, + This is the helpless end, that all is done: + So 'tis with him, whom long a vision led + In quest of Beauty, and who finds at last + She lies beyond his effort. All the waves + Of all the world between them: While the dead, + The myriad dead, who people all the Past + With failure, hail him from forgotten graves. + + + + + LOVE DESPISED + + + Can one resolve and hunt it from one's heart? + This love, this god and fiend, that makes a hell + Of many a life, in ways no tongue can tell, + No mind divine, nor any word impart. + Would not one think the slights that make hearts smart, + The ice of love's disdain, the wint'ry well + Of love's disfavor, love's own fire would quell? + Or school its nature, too, to its own art. + Why will men cringe and cry forever here + For that which, once obtained, may prove a curse? + Why not remember that, however fair, + Decay is wed to Beauty? That each year + Takes somewhat from the riches of her purse, + Until at last her house of pride stands bare? + + + + + THE DEATH OF LOVE + + + So Love is dead, the Love we knew of old! + And in the sorrow of our hearts' hushed halls + A lute lies broken and a flower falls; + Love's house is empty and his hearth is cold. + Lone in dim places, where sweet vows were told. + In walks grown desolate, by ruined walls, + Beauty decays; and on their pedestals + Dreams crumble, and th' immortal gods are mould. + Music is slain or sleeps; one voice alone, + One voice awakes, and like a wandering ghost + Haunts all the echoing chambers of the Past-- + The voice of Memory, that stills to stone + The soul that hears; the mind that, utterly lost, + Before its beautiful presence stands aghast. + + + + + GERALDINE, GERALDINE + + + Geraldine, Geraldine, + Do you remember where + The willows used to screen + The water flowing fair? + The mill-stream's banks of green + Where first our love begun, + When you were seventeen, + And I was twenty-one? + + Geraldine, Geraldine, + Do you remember how + From th' old bridge we would lean-- + The bridge that's broken now-- + To watch the minnows sheen, + And the ripples of the Run, + When you were seventeen, + And I was twenty-one? + + Geraldine, Geraldine, + Do you remember too + The old beech-tree, between + Whose roots the wild flowers grew? + Where oft we met at e'en, + When stars were few or none, + When you were seventeen, + And I was twenty-one? + + Geraldine, Geraldine, + The bark has grown around + The names I cut therein, + And the truelove-knot that bound; + The love-knot, clear and clean, + I carved when our love begun, + When you were seventeen, + And I was twenty-one? + + Geraldine, Geraldine, + The roof of the farmhouse gray + Is fallen and mossy green; + Its rafters rot away: + The old path scarce is seen + Where oft our feet would run, + When you were seventeen, + And I was twenty-one. + + Geraldine, Geraldine, + Through each old tree and bough + The lone winds cry and keen-- + The place is haunted now, + With ghosts of what-has-been, + With dreams of love-long-done, + When you were seventeen, + And I was twenty-one. + + Geraldine, Geraldine, + There, in your world of wealth, + There, where you move a queen, + Broken in heart and health, + Does there ever rise a scene + Of days, your soul would shun, + When you were seventeen, + And I was twenty-one? + + Geraldine, Geraldine, + Here, 'mid the rose and rue, + Would God that your grave were green. + And I were lying too! + Here on the hill, I mean, + Where oft we laughed i' the sun, + When you were seventeen, + And I was twenty-one. + + + + + ALLUREMENT + + + Across the world she sends me word, + From gardens fair as Falerina's, + Now by a blossom, now a bird, + To come to her, who long has lured + With magic sweeter than Alcina's. + + I know not what her word may mean, + I know not what may mean the voices + She sends as messengers serene, + That through the silvery silence lean, + To tell me where her heart rejoices. + + But I must go! I must away! + Must take the path that is appointed! + God grant I find her realm some day! + Where, by her love, as by a ray, + My soul shall be anointed. + + + + + BLACK VESPER'S PAGEANTS. + + + The day, all fierce with carmine, turns + An Indian face towards Earth and dies; + The west, like some gaunt vase, inurns + Its ashes under smouldering skies, + Athwart whose bowl one red cloud streams, + Strange as a shape some Aztec dreams. + + Now shadows mass above the world, + And night comes on with wind and rain; + The mulberry-colored leaves are hurled + Like frantic hands against the pane. + And through the forests, bending low, + Night stalks like some gigantic woe. + + In hollows where the thistle shakes + A hoar bloom like a witch's-light, + From weed and flower the rain-wind rakes + Dead sweetness--as a wildman might, + From out the leaves, the woods among, + Dig some dead woman, fair and young. + + Now let me walk the woodland ways, + Alone! except for thoughts, that are + Akin to such wild nights and days; + A portion of the storm that far + Fills Heaven and Earth tumultuously, + And my own soul with ecstasy. + + + + + + OTHER VOLUMES + BY + MADISON CAWEIN + + + THE GARDEN OF DREAMS + + Printed on hand-made paper; bound in watered silk; + only a few copies remaining; price, $1.25 (net) + + + WEEDS BY THE WALL + + Tastefully bound in silk cloth; price, $1.25 + + + Sent on receipt of price to any address by + + JOHN P. MORTON & COMPANY + PUBLISHERS + LOUISVILLE, KENTUCKY. + + +WILLIAM DEAN HOWELLS, in the _North American Review_ for January, 1902. + +"One never praises an author for certain things without afterward +doubting if they were the characteristic things, or whether just the +reverse might not be said. Praise is, in fact, a delicate business, and +I, who am rather fond of dealing in it, never feel quite safe. Not only +is it questionable at the moment, but the later behavior of the author +is sometimes such that one is sorry not to have made it blame. It is +always with a shrinking, which I try to hide from the public, that I +take up the fresh venture of a poet whom I have once bet on. But there +is a joy when I find that I have not lost my wager, which is full +compensation for the anxiety suffered. This joy has lately been mine in +the latest little book of Mr. Madison Cawein, whose work I long ago +confessed my pleasure in. I am not sure that he has transcended the +limits which he then seemed to give himself as the lover, the prophet, +of beauty in the woods and waters and skies of the southern Mid-West. I +do not know that he need have done more than unlock the riches of +emotion within these limits. What I am sure of is that in 'Weeds by the +Wall' he has more deeply charmed me with an art perfected from that I +felt in 'Blooms of the Berry' ten or fifteen years since. Many little +books of his have come (I hope not also gone) between the first and +last, and none of them has failed to make me glad of his work; and now, +again, I am finding the same impassioned moods in the same impassive +presences. To my knowledge, no such nature poems have been written +within the time since Mr. Cawein began to write as his are, or from such +an intimacy with the 'various language' which nature speaks. There are +other good poems in the book, poems which would have made reputes in the +eighteenth century, and which it would be a shame not to own good in the +twentieth; but those which speak for 'The Cricket,' 'A Twilight Moth,' +'The Grasshopper,' 'The Tree-Toad,' 'The Screech Owl,' 'The Chipmunk,' +'Drouth,' 'Before the Rain,' and the like, are in a voice which +interprets the very soul of what we call the inarticulate things, though +they seem to have enunciated themselves so distinctly to this poet. It +is cheap to note his increasing control of his affluent imagery and the +growing mastery that makes him so fine an artist. These things were to +be expected from his early poems, but what makes one think he will go +far and long, and outlive both praise and blame, is the blending of a +sense of the Kentucky civilization in such a poem as 'Feud.'... +Civilization may not be quite the word for the condition of things +suggested here, but there can be no doubt of the dramatic and the +graphic power that suggests it, and that imparts a personal sense of the +tragic squalor, the sultry drouth, the forlorn wickedness of it all. By +such a way as this lies Mr. Cawein's hope of rise from nature up to man, +if it is up; and also, as I perceive too late, lies confusion for the +critic who said that the poet does not transcend the limits he once +seemed to give himself." + + + * * * * * + + +TRANSCRIBER'S NOTE: Page 76 "wickednsse" changed to "wickedness" (the +forlorn wickedness of it all.) + + + + + +End of Project Gutenberg's A Voice on the Wind, by Madison Julius Cawein + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A VOICE ON THE WIND *** + +***** This file should be named 33940.txt or 33940.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/3/3/9/4/33940/ + +Produced by David Garcia, Dianne Nolan and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This +file was produced from images generously made available +by The Kentuckiana Digital Library) + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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