The Poems of Madison Cawein. Volume 2 (of 5)

MARGERY

I

When spring is here and MargeryGoes walking in the woods with me,She is so white, she is so shy,The little leaves clap hands and cry—“Perdie;So white is she, so shy is she,Ah me!The maiden May hath just passed by!”

II

When summer ’s here and MargeryGoes walking in the fields with me,She is so pure, she is so fair,The wildflowers eye her and declare—“Perdie!So pure is she, so fair is she,Just see,Where our sweet cousin takes the air!”

III

Why is it that my MargeryHears nothing that these say to me?She is so good, she is so true,My heart it maketh such ado,Perdie!So good is she, so true is she,You see,She can not hear the other two.

CONSTANCE

Beyond the orchard, in the lane,The crested red-bird sings again—O bird, whose song says, “Have no care,”Should I not care when Constance there,—My Constance with the bashful gaze,Pink-gowned like some sweet hollyhock,—If I declare my love, just saysSome careless thing as if in mock?Like—“Past the orchard, in the lane,Hark! how the red-bird sings again!”There, while the red-bird sings his best,His listening mate sits on the nest—O bird, whose patience says, “All ’s well,”How can it be with me, come, tell?When Constance, with averted eyes,—Soft-bonneted as some sweet-pea,—If I talk marriage, just repliesWith some such quaint irrelevancy,As, “While the red-bird sings his best,His loving mate sits on the nest.”What shall I say? what can I do?Would such replies mean aught to you,O birds, whose music says, “Be glad”?Have I not reason to be sadWhen Constance, with demurest glance,Her face all poppied with distress,If I reproach her, pouts, perchance,And answers thus in waywardness?—“What shall I say? what can I do?My meaning should be plain to you!”

LYDIA

When Autumn’s here and days are short,Let Lydia laugh and, hey!Straightway ’t is May-day in my heart,And blossoms strew the way.When Summer ’s here and days are long,Let Lydia sigh and, ho!December’s fields I walk among,And shiver in the snow.No matter what the seasons are,My Lydia is so dear,My heart admits no calendarOf Earth when she is near.

HELEN

Heaped in raven loops and massesOver temples smooth and fair,Have you marked it, as she passes,Night and starlight mingled there,—Braided strands of midnight air,—Helen’s hair?Deep with dreams and moony mazesOf the thought that in them lies,Have you seen them, as she raisesThem in question or surprise,—Two gray gleams of daybreak skies,—Helen’s eyes?Fresh as dew and honied waftersOf a music sweet that slips,Have you marked them, brimmed with laughter’sSong and sunshine to their tips,—Blossoms whence the perfume drips,—Helen’s lips?He who sees her needs must love her:But, beware, whoe’er thou art!Lest like me thou shouldst discoverNature overlooked one part,In this masterpiece of art—Helen’s heart.

MIGNON

Oh, Mignon’s mouth is like a rose,A red, red rose, that half uncurlsSweet petals o’er a crimson bee:Or like a shell, that, opening, showsWithin its rosy curve white pearls,White rows of pearls,Is Mignon’s mouth that smiles at me.Oh, Mignon’s eyes are like blue gems,Two azure gems that gleam and glow,Soft sapphires set in ivory:Or like twin violets, whose stemsBloom blue beneath the covering snow,The lidded snow,Are Mignon’s eyes that laugh at me.O mouth of Mignon, Mignon’s eyes!O eyes of violet, mouth of fire!—Within which lies all ecstasyOf tears and kisses and of sighs:—O mouth, O eyes, and O desire,O love’s desire,Have mercy on the soul of me!

TRANSUBSTANTIATION

I

A sunbeam and a drop of dewLay on a red rose in the South:God took the three and made her mouth,Her sweet, small mouth,So red of hue,—The burning baptism of His kissStill fills my heart with heavenly bliss.

II

A dream of truth and love come trueSlept on a star in daybreak skies:God mingled these and made her eyes,Her dear, clear eyes,So gray of hue,—The high communion of His gazeStill fills my soul with deep amaze.

LOVE AND A DAY

I

In girandoles of gladiolesThe day had kindled flame;And Heaven a door of gold and pearlUnclosed, whence Morning,—like a girl,A red rose twisted in a curl,—Down sapphire stairways came.Said I to Love: “What must I do?What shall I do? what can I do?”Said I to Love: “What must I do,All on a summer’s morning?”Said Love to me: “Go woo, go woo.”Said Love to me: “Go woo.If she be milking, follow, O!And in the clover hollow, O!While through the dew the bells clang clear,Just whisper it into her ear,All on a summer’s morning.”

II

Of honey and heat and weed and wheatThe day had made perfume;And Heaven a tower of turquoise raised,Whence Noon, like some pale woman, gazed—A sunflower withering at her waist—Within a crystal room.Said I to Love: “What must I do?What shall I do? what can I do?”Said I to Love: “What must I do,All in the summer nooning?”Said Love to me: “Go woo, go woo.”Said Love to me: “Go woo.If she be ’mid the rakers, O!Among the harvest acres, O!While every breeze brings scents of hay,Just hold her hand and not take ‘nay,’All in the summer nooning.”

III

With song and sigh and cricket cryThe day had mingled rest;And Heaven a casement opened wideOf opal, whence, like some young bride,The Twilight leaned, all starry eyed,A moonflower on her breast.Said I to Love: “What must I do?What shall I do? what can I do?”Said I to Love: “What must I do,All in the summer gloaming?”Said Love to me: “Go woo, go woo.”Said Love to me: “Go woo,Go meet her at the trysting, O!And ’spite of her resisting, O!Beneath the stars and afterglow,Just clasp her close and kiss her—so,All in the summer gloaming.”

LOVE IN A GARDEN

I

Between the rose’s and the canna’s crimson,Beneath thy window in the night I stand;The jeweled dew hangs little stars, in rims, onThe white moonflowers; each a spirit handThat points the path to mystic Shadowland.Awaken, sweet and fair!And add to night thy grace!Suffer its loveliness to shareThe white moon of thy face,The dark cloud of thy hair.Awaken, sweet and fair!

II

A moth, like down, swings on th’ althea’s pistil,—Ghost of a tone that haunts its bell’s deep dome;—And in the August-lily’s cone of crystalA firefly hangs the lantern of a gnome,Green as a gem that gleams through hollow foam.Approach! the moment flies!O sweetheart of the South!Come! mingle with night’s mysteriesThe red rose of thy mouth,The dark stars of thine eyes.—Approach! the moment flies!

III

Dim through the dusk, like some unearthly presence,The night-song silvers of a dreaming bird;And with it borne, faint on a breeze-blown essence,The rainy whisper of a fountain’s heard—As if young lips had breathed a perfumed word.How long, my love, my bliss!How long must I awaitWith night—that all impatience is—Thy greeting at the gate,And at the gate thy kiss?How long, my love, my bliss!

FLORIDIAN

I

The cactus and the aloe bloomBeneath the window of your room;That window where, at evenfall,Beneath the twilight’s first pale star,You linger, tall and spiritual,And hearken my guitar.It is the hourWhen every flowerIs wooed of moth or bee—Would, would you were the flower, dear,And I the moth to draw you near,To draw you near to me,My dear,To draw you near to me!

II

The jasmine and bignonia spillTheir balm about your windowsill;That sill where, when magnolia-white,In foliage mists, the moon hangs far,You lean with bright deep eyes of night,And hearken my guitar.It is the hourWhen from each flowerThe wind woos essences—Would, would you were the flower, love,And I the wind to breathe above,To breathe above and kiss,My love,To breathe above and kiss!

WHEN SHIPS PUT OUT TO SEA

I

It’s “Sweet, good-by,” when pennants flyAnd ships put out to sea;It ’s a loving kiss, and a tear or twoIn an eye of brown or an eye of blue:—And you’ll remember me,Sweetheart,And you’ll remember me.

II

It’s “Friend or foe?” when signals blowAnd ships sight ships at sea;It’s “Clear for action! and man the guns!”As the battle nears and the battle runs;—And you’ll remember me,Sweetheart,And you’ll remember me.

III

It’s deck to deck, and wrath and wreck,When ships meet ships at sea;It’s scream of shot and shriek of shell,And hull and turret a roaring hell;—And you’ll remember me,Sweetheart,And you’ll remember me.

IV

It’s doom and death, and pause a breath,When ships go down at sea;It’s hate is over and love begins,And war is cruel whoever wins;—And you’ll remember me,Sweetheart,And you’ll remember me.

A CHRISTMAS CATCH

When roads are mired with ice and snow,And the air of morn is crisp with rime;When the holly hangs by the mistletoe,And bells ring in the Christmas-time:—It’s—Saddle, my Heart! and ride awayTo the sweet-faced girl with eyes of gray!Who waits with a smile for the gifts you bring—A man’s strong love and a wedding-ring—It’s—Saddle, my Heart, and ride!When vanes veer north and storm-winds blow,And the sun at noon is a blur o’erhead;When the holly hangs by the mistletoe,And the Christmas service is sung and said:—It’s—Come, O my Heart, and wait a while,Where the organ peals, in the altar aisle,For the gifts that the church now gives to you—A woman’s hand and a heart that’s true.It’s—Come, O my Heart, and wait!When rooms gleam warm with the fire’s glow,And the sleet raps sharp on the window-pane:When the holly hangs by the mistletoe,And Christmas revels begin again:—It’s—Home, O my Heart, and love, at last!And her happy breast to your own held fast:A song to sing and a tale to tell,A good-night kiss and all is well.It’s—Home, O my Heart, and love!

A SONG FOR YULE

I

Sing, Hey, when the time rolls round this way,And bells peal out, ’Tis Christmas Day!The world is better then by half,For joy, for joy:In a little while you will see it laugh—For a song’s to sing and a glass to quaff,My boy; my boy.So here ’s to the man who never says nay!—Sing, Hey, a song of Christmas Day!

II

Sing, Ho, when roofs are white with snow,And homes are hung with mistletoe:Old Earth is not half bad, I wis—What cheer! what cheer!How it ever seemed sad the wonder is—With a gift to give and a girl to kiss,My dear; my dear.So here ’s to the girl who never says no!Sing, Ho, a song of the mistletoe!

III

No thing in the world to the heart seems wrongWhen the soul of a man walks out with song;Wherever they go, glad hand in hand,And glove in glove,The round of the land is rainbow-spanned,And the meaning of life they understandIs love; is love.Let the heart be open, the soul be strong,And life will be glad as a Christmas song.

CHORDS

I

When love delays, when love delays and joySteals like a shadow o’er the happy hills;When hope is gone; and no to-morrow fillsThe promise of to-day; still I employMy soul with thoughts of thee,Who ’rt not for me, for me!When love delays, when love delays and songAches at wild lips, unutterable, as the soundOf ocean strives, within the shell’s mouth bound;And hope is gone for ever, slain of wrong;Still in my heart one wordKeeps calling like a bird.When love delays, when love delays and sleepSeals tired eyelids,—like the sound of foam,Heard ’mid familiar flowers far from home,—When hope lies dead; in dreams, in dreams I keepFeeling thy lips’ sweet touch,—And, oh! it is too much!When love delays, when love delays and sorrowDrinks her own tears that add but to her thirst;When song and sleep and love itself seem curst,And hope lies dead; still, still I dream to-morrowWill bring some word of cheerFrom thee who art not here.Will love delay, will love delay till deathHath sealed these lips and locked these eyes in night?Till unto love and hate indifferent quiteThis form shall lie? Then wilt thou, wild of breath,Bend down and kiss me thereWhen I no more shall care?

II

If thou wouldst know the Beautiful that breathesAnd beckons through the World, far must thou seek!…She is no shadow wreathed with hemlock wreaths;No drowsy sorrow whose wan eyes are weakWith melancholy vigils; and no shadeOf tragic sin of the sweet sun afraid:No tearful anger torn of truthless love,Who stabs her sick heart to the dagger’s hiltFor vengeance sweet; no miser mood, or maid,In owlet towers!—Nay! she sings aboveOn morning meads ’mid flowers that never wilt.If thou dost seek the Beautiful, beware!Lest thou discover her, nor know ’tis she;And she enslave thee to thy heart’s despair,And fill thy soul with yearning, utterly,For that wild-rose which is her mouth, that bringsDew-odors of the dawn; for those twin springsOf light, her eyes; the bloom of her white brow,O’er which the foliage of her dark hair lies:The melody which is her heart, that singsThe poetry of love, to which all bow,Both gods and men, the love that never dies.Lost art thou then, lost as the first lone starSet in the splendor of the sunset’s wave;Lost in thy loneliness of searching far,Striving to clasp her, evermore her slave:Lost—gladly lost! a devotee to herWho, in the end, perhaps may let thee shareA portion of her bliss, her heritageOf happiness in the same way and wiseAs woods and waters share it.—Then prepareThy soul,—made perfect,—for its final wage,Her kiss, whose touch shall apotheosize.

III

Now that the orchard’s leaves are sere,And drip with rain instead of dew,No moon-bright fruit hangs moon-like here,And dead your long white lilies too,—And dead the heart that broke for you:How comes the dim touch of your arm?Your faint lips on my feverish cheek?Your eyes near mine? deep as a charm,And gray, so gray! till I am weak,Weak with wild tears and can not speak.I am as one who walks in dreams;Sees, as in youth, his father’s home;Hears from his native mountain streamsFar music of continual foam,And one sweet voice that bids him come.

AT HER GRAVE

I

With your eyes of April blue,And your mouthLike a May-rose, fresh with dew,Of the South,With your hair as golden sweetAs the ripples of ripe wheat,How you make my old heart beat!—Who are you?

II

There is something that I knew,Long ago,In your voice that thrills me throughWith the glowOf remembered happiness;And your look—I can not guessWhat it is there, nor express.—Who are you?

III

You are like her! even the hueOf her eyes!—It is strange you stop here, too,Where she lies!—Where she lies who was, you see,All to me a girl could be—But no wife.—You stare at me.—Who are you?

IV

Well, I left her. That ’s not new—God above!Men, who live so, often do.’T is n’t love.So I broke her heart, they say,—And been wretched since that day:And our child—don’t turn away!—Who are you?

A CONFESSION

These are the facts:—I was to blame.I brought her here and wrought her shame.She came with me all trustingly.Lovely and innocent her face:And in her perfect form, the graceOf purity and modesty.I think I loved her then: would doteOn her ambrosial breast and throat,Young as a wildflower’s tenderness:Her eyes, that were both glad and sad:Her cheeks and chin, that dimples had:Her mouth, red-ripe to kiss and kiss.Three months passed by; three moons of fire;When in me sickened all desire:And in its place a devil,—whoFilled all my soul with deep disgust,And on the victim of my lustTurned eyes of loathing,—swiftly grew.One night, when by my side she slept,I rose: and leaning, while I keptThe dagger hid, I kissed her hairAnd mouth: and, when she smiled asleep,Into her heart I drove it deep—And left her dead, still smiling there.

LAST DAYS

Ah! heartbreak of the tattered hills,And heartache of the autumn sky!Heartbreak and heartache, since God wills,Are mine, and God knows why!I held one dearer than each dayOf life God sets in sunny gold—But Death hath ta’en that gem away,And left me poor and old.The heartbreak of the hills is mine,Of trampled twig and rain-beat leaf,Of wind that sobs through thorn and pineAn unavailing grief.The sorrow of the loveless skies’“Farewells” are wild as those I saidWhen last I kissed my child’s blue eyesAnd lips, ice-dumb and dead.

AT TWILIGHT

Once more she holds me with her pensive eyes;Once more I feel her voice’s witcheryWithin my heart unfountain tears and sighs,And fill the soul of me.Once more she bends a silent face above;Once more I feel her hands’ soft touches shakeMy life, unbinding long-imprisoned love,Bidding my lost dreams wake.Once more I see her serious smile; and touchOnce more the lips of her whose kisses say—“The night was long, and thou hast suffered much:At last, dear heart, ’t is day!”

DAY AND NIGHT

They said to me, “The days are not so far offWhen she will come, who gave her heart to thee;”And still I wait, while twilight’s lonely star, offHer long-loved hills, dips dewy to the sea.And I recall that night, which gave its soul ofCalm beauty to the earth, when she did giveHer love’s white starlight to the rugged whole ofMy barren life and bade me see and live.The days go by, and my sick soul recalls butThe revelation of that evening sky:The days! whose hours are as narrow walls,—butOf whiter shadow,—where hearts break and die.The day is error’s: it can but deceive usWith shows of Earth, blind with the primal curse.The night is truth’s: its myriad fires weave usThe thoughts of God, the visible universe.

THREE BIRDS

A red bird sang upon the boughWhen wind-flowers nodded in the dew:My spring of bird and flower wast thou,O tried and true!A brown bird warbled on the wingWhen poppy buds were hearts of heat:I wooed thee with a golden ring,O sad and sweet!A black-bird twittered in the mistWhen nightshade blooms were filled with frost:The leaves upon thy grave are whist,O loved and lost!

UNREQUITED

Passion? not hers! who held me with pure eyes:One hand among the deep curls of her brow,I drank the girlhood of her gaze with sighs:She never sighed, nor gave me kiss or vow.So have I seen a clear October pool,Cold, liquid topaz, set within the sereGold of the woodland, tremorless and cool,Reflecting all the heartbreak of the year.Sweetheart? not she! whose voice was music-sweet;Whose face was sweeter than melodious prayer.Sweetheart I called her.—When did she repeatSweet to one hope, or heart to one despair!So have I seen a wildflower’s fragrant headSung to and sung to by a longing bird,And at the last, albeit the bird lay dead,No blossom wilted, for it had not heard.

THE HEART’S DESIRE

God made her body out of foam and flowers,And for her hair the dawn and darkness blent;Then called two planets from their heavenly towers,And in her face, divinely eloquent,Gave them a firmament.God made her heart of rosy ice and fire,Of snow and flame, that freezes while it burns;And of a starbeam and a moth’s desireHe made her soul, to’ards which my longing turns,And all my being yearns.So is my life a prisoner unto passion,Enslaved of her who gives nor sign nor word;So in the cage her loveliness doth fashionIs love endungeoned, like a golden birdThat sings but is not heard.Could it but once convince her with beseeching!But once compel her as the sun the south!Could it but once, fond arms around her reaching,Upon the red carnation of her mouthDew its eternal drouth!Then might I rise victorious over sadness,O’er fate and change, and, with but little care,Torched by the glory of that moment’s gladness,Breast the black mountain of my life’s despair,And die, or do and dare.

OUT OF THE DEPTHS

I

Let me forget her face!So fresh, so lovely! the abiding placeOf tears and smiles that won my heart to her;Of dreams and moods that moved my soul’s dim deeps,As strong winds stirDark waters where the starlight glimmering sleeps.—In every lineament the mind can trace,Let me forget her face!

II

Let me forget her form!Soft and seductive, that contained each charm,Each grace the sweet word maidenhood implies;And all the sensuous youth of line and curve,That makes men’s eyesBondsmen of beauty, eager still to serve.—In every part that memory can warm,Let me forget her form!

III

Let me forget her, God!Her who made honeyed love a bitter rodTo scourge my heart with, barren with despair;To tear my soul with, sick with vain desire!—Oh, hear my prayer!Out of the hell of love’s unquenchable fireI cry to thee, with face against the sod,Let me forget her, God!

“THIS IS THE FACE OF HER”

This is the face of herI’ve dreamed of longThat in my heart I bear:This is the face of herPictured in song.Look on the lily lids,The eyes of dawn,—Deep as a Nereid’s,Swimming with dewy lidsIn waters wan.Look on the brows of snow,The locks of night:Only the gods can showSuch brows of placid snow,Such locks of light.The cheeks, like rosy moons;The lips of fire:Love sighs no sweeter tunesUnder romantic moonsThan these suspire.Loved lips and eyes and hair!Look, this is she!She, who sits smiling there,Throned in my heart’s despair,Never for me!

INDIFFERENCE

She is so dear the wildflowers nearEach path she passes by,Are over fain to kiss againHer feet and then to die.She is so fair the wild birds thereThat sing upon the bough,Have learned the staff of her sweet laugh,And sing no other now.Alas! that she should never see,Should never care to know,The wildflower’s love, the bird’s above,And his, who loves her so.

GHOST WEATHER

Wild gusts of drizzle hoot and hissThrough writhing lindens torn in two—The dead’s own days are days like this!Yea; let me sit and be with you.Here in your willow chair, whose seatSpreads purple plush.—Hark! how the gustsSeem moaning voices that repeatSome grief here; in this room, where dustsMake dim each ornament and chair;This locked-in memory where you died:Since angels stood here, saintly fearGuards each dark corner, mournful-eyed.Through this dim light bend your dim face;Or, like a rain-mist, gray of gleam,A soft, dim cloudiness of lace,Stand near me while I dream, I dream.

THE FOREST POOL

One memory persuades me whenDusk’s lonely star burns overhead,To take the gray path through the glen—That finds the forest pool, made redWith sunset—and forget again,Forget that she is dead.Once more I look into the spring,That on one rock a finger whiteOf foam that beckons still doth bring—Some moon-wan spirit of the night,Who dwells within its murmuring,Her life the sad moonlight.I see the red dusk touch it hereWith fire like a blade of blood;One star reflected, white and clear,Like a wood-blossom’s drowning bud;While all my grief stands very near,Pale in the solitude.And then, behold, while yet the moonHangs—silver as a twisted hornBlown out of Elfland—sweet with June,White in white clusters of the thorn,Slow, in the water as a tune,An image pale is born:That has her throat of frost; her lips—Her mouth where God’s anointment lies;Her eyes, wherefrom love’s arrow-tipsBreak, like the starlight from dark skies;Her hair, a hazel heap that slips;Her throat and hair and eyes.And then I stoop; the water kissed,The face fades from me into air;And in the pool’s dark amethystMy own pale face returns my stare:Then night and mist—and in the mistOne dead leaf drifting there.

AT SUNSET

Into the sunset’s turquoise margeThe moon dips, like a pearly bargeEnchantment sails through magic seas,To fairyland Hesperides,Over the hills and away.Into the fields, in ghost-gray gown,The young-eyed dusk comes slowly down;Her apron filled with stars she stands.And one or two slip from her handsOver the hills and away.Above the wood’s black caldron bendsThe witch-faced Night and, muttering, blendsThe dew and heat, whose bubbles makeThe mist and musk that haunt the brakeOver the hills and away.Oh, come with me, and let us goBeyond the sunset lying low,Beyond the twilight and the night,Into Love’s kingdom of long light,Over the hills and away.

DEAD AND GONE

Can you tell me how he rests,Flowers, growing o’er him there?His a right warm heart, my sweets,—So, cover it with care.Can you tell me how he liesSuch nights out in the cold,O cricket, with your plaintive call,O glow-worm, with your gold?If my eyes are sorrowful,Well may they weep, I trow,—Since his dead eyes gazed into them,They have been sad enow.If my heart make moan and ache,Well may it break, I’m sure—For his dead love is more, ah me!More than it can endure.