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

LYANNA

“These elementary beings, we are told, were by their constitution more long-lived than man, but with this essential disadvantage, that at death they wholly ceased to exist. In the meantime they were inspired with an earnest desire for immortality; and there was one way left for them, by which this desire might be gratified. If they were so happy as to awaken in any of the initiated (Rosicrucians) a passion, the end of which was marriage, then the sylph became immortal.”—Godwin’s “Lives of the Necromancers.”

Summer came over the Indian OceanGirdled with fire, tiaraed with light;Her eyes all languor, her lips—a potionTo quaff—of poppy. And gold and whiteShe flashed and sparkled; all gleam and motion,All blush and blossom she came; and I,Of the race of the sylphs, o’er the Indian OceanFollowed her through the sky.Self-exiled so from the sylphs that cluster,Pulsing with pearl and burning with blue,In domes of the dawn,—where the organs blusterLow of the winds,—where they glow like dewAs the day dreams up, and their armies muster,Ranges of glitter, in cloudy gold,At the gates of the Dawn, of blinding luster,To forth when her gates unfold.For Summer murmured me, “Follow! follow!”Whispered one word that was all of love.—Winged with the speed of the sweeping swallow,I followed the word she had breathed above:“Follow! follow!”—the god ApolloNever followed, with speed as strongThe flying nymph through holt and hollow,As I that word of song.Fleet as the winds are fleet, yea, and fleeterFar than the stars that throb, like foam,Through the firmament’s blue, in musical metreWinnowed my wings; and the golden gloamRang; and life was a passion, completerThan a life in Eden; and love,—a lyreThat sang in my heart and made life sweeterWith hope,—a leaping fire.Thus to the north my wings went mayingRadiant ways, till a castle shoneGaunt on great cliffs, with the late skies grayingO’er walls of war and their towers lone,With tortuous steps to the sea, where, spraying,Thundered the breakers; and terrace and stair,Rock o’er the waters, rose rosy and rayingDeep in the sunset’s glare.A dewdrop burns when the dawn lights prickle:And all my being tingled with light,Bloomed when I saw her, tarrying fickle,White on the castled height:Slender she shone as the moon in sickle,The slim new-moon, like a pearl-pale streak;And golden, too, as the honey-trickleOf combs where the wax is weak.In dreams I came to her, lo! as a vision:Yea, by her side as a dream I stood;To her innermost spirit I sighed my mission,In the vestal ear of her maidenhood:And she deemed me a dream; and I made a prisonOf my arms for her soul while she, smiling, slept:Her body lay still, but her soul had arisen,And looked on my face and wept:“Lyanna, I hoop thee with arms of fire!”—My words were music, a harp afloat,—“Lyanna, my heart is a vibrant wire,Thy love is its only note.Let it sing forever. Let it sound entire,Full as the angels’ who hover and harpTo the glory that’s God, like a golden lyreBorne in a beam that is sharp....“Behold me, thy rose! full of flame and splendor!Thy rose to pluck: thy ruby bloom:Thy sylphid rose, with eyes that are tender;Lips that are fire; and limbs of perfumeAnd fragrant fire: thy heart’s defender!Thy airy lover!” … And, bending above,Sweeter my speech than a flower’s that, slender,Tells to the stars its love.Lo, as I spoke, with thoughts that thicken,Her heart seemed filled; and she spoke; but sleepShadowed her words, till my kiss did quickenAnd free, like stars from the night that leap:—“Long I have waited; and long did sickenTo clasp thee thus, O my rose of love!Oft have I dreamed of thee, yea, and was strickenWith joy at the thought thereof.“White are the clouds; but I saw thee whiter’Mid dazzling domes of the dawn; and knewTho’ bright are God’s stars, that thine eyes were brighter,Brighter and burning blue.And my heart was thine, though it held thee slighterThan hues that the mists of the morning take:And waited and yearned, and the yearning tighterThan tears in the hearts that break.“‘Lyanna! Lyanna!’ I heard thee everCalling ‘Lyanna,’ a ripple of flame:‘Lyanna! Lyanna!’ like song forever;And I marveled at my name.The sound was such—that if stars could severAnd silver-syllable a word of beams,So would it sound.—I turned; but neverBeheld thee, only in dreams.“Thou walkedst a beauty afar: a glitterOf gleaming aroma: and I, with moan,Reached thee my arms: but thy gaze was bitter,Calmer and sterner than stone:Avoiding thou passedst in scorn: a sitter,I seemed, on the uttermost bounds of bliss:When, lo! on the wind,—a flame, a flitterOf fire,—thy laugh, and thy kiss!”—I had won her love. And, behold! the thunderTrumpeted tempest: I heard the seasLunge at the walls like a roaring wonder,And the rain-wind sing in the trees.—Lyanna my bride.—And the heavens asunderRushed—chasms of glaring storm, where pouredThe thunder’s cataracts, rolling under—And showed me, horde on horde,The shouting spirits of storm.—The portalOf sleep was riven; she rose, and saw:And I said to her soul, “Of the utterly mortalMine the eternal lot and law.”—“I love thee!” she answered.—And I, “ImmortalAm I through thy love!” … And so we fled....Behold! when they came in the morn, astartle,Men whispered—“Lyanna is dead!”

THE SPIRITS OF LIGHT AND DARKNESS

Voices of DarknessEre the birth of Death and of Time,And of Hell, with its tears and its torments:Ere the waves of heat and of rime,And the winds to the heavens were as garments:Cloud-like in the womb of Space,Mist-like from her monster womb,We sprang, a myriad raceOf thunder and tempest and gloom.Voices of LightAs from the evil goodSprings, and desire:As the white lily’s hoodBuds from the mire:So from this midnight broodSprang we with fire.Voices of DarknessWe had lain for long ages asleepIn her bosom, a bulk of torpor,When down through the vasts of the deepClove a sound, like the notes of a harper:Clove a sound, and the horrors grewTumultuous with turbulent night,With whirlwinds of blackness that blew,And storm that was godly in might.And the walls of our dungeon were shatteredLike the crust of a fire-wrecked world:As torrents of clouds that are scattered,From the womb of the deep we were hurled.Voices of LightUs in unholy thoughtPatiently lying,Eöns of violence wrought,Violence defying;When, on a mighty wind,Voiced of a godly mind,Big with a motive kind,Girdled with wonder,Flame and a strength of song,Rolling vast light along,Thundered the Word, and WrongVanished,—and we were strong,Strong as the thunder.Voices of DarknessWe people the lower spaces,Where our cities of silence make scornOf the sun, and our shadowy facesAre safe from the splendors of morn.Our homes are wrecked worlds and each planetWhose sun is a light that is sped;Bleak moons, whose cold bodies of graniteAre hollow and flameless and dead.Voices of LightWe in the living sunLive like a passion:Ere the sad Earth begunWe and the sun were one,As God did fashion.Lo! from our burning hands,Flung like inspired brands,Sowed we the worlds, like sands,Countless as ocean:And ’tis our breath gives life,Life to those stars, all rifeWith iridescent strife,Music and motion.Voices of DarknessWe joy in the hate of all mortals;Inspire their crimes and the thoughtThat falters and halts at the portalsOf actions, intentions unwrought.We cover the face of to-morrow:We frown in the hours that be:We breathe in the presence of sorrow:And death and destruction are we.Voices of LightWe are man’s hope and ease,Joy and his pleasure;Authors of love and peace,Love that shall never cease,Free as the azure.Lo! we but look, and lightHeartens the world with might,Vanquishes death and nightHate and its burnings:And from our bosoms streamBeauty and yearningsFor a diviner dream,Higher discernings.Voices of the Break of DayMorning and birth are ours;Light that is blownFrom our fair lips; and flowers,Dropped from our hands in showers,Seeds that are sown:Song and the bursting buds,Life of the fields and floods;Strength that’s full-grown:And, from our beryl jars,Filled with the clouds and stars,Pour we the winds and dew;While by our eyes of blueDarkness is rent in two,Conquered and strown.Voices of the DawnYe in your darkness areDark and infernal;Subject to death and mar!But in the spaces far,Like our effulgent star,We are eternal.

THE WATER WITCH

See! the milk-white doe is wounded.He will follow as it boundsThrough the woods. His horn has sounded,Echoing, for his men and hounds.But no answering bugle blew.He has lost his retinueFor the shapely deer that boundedPast him when his bow he drew.Not one hound or huntsman follows.Through the underbrush and mossGoes the slot; and in the hollowsOf the hills, that he must cross,He has lost it. He must fareOver rocks where she-wolves lair;Wood-pools where the wild-boar wallows:So he leaves his hunter there.Through his mind then flashed an oldenLegend told him by the monks:—Of a girl, whose hair is golden,Haunting fountains and the trunksOf the woodlands; who, they say,Is a white doe all the day,But when woods are night-enfoldenTurns into an evil fay.Then the story once his teacherTold him: of a mountain lakeDemons dwell in; vague of feature,Human-like; but each a snake,She is queen of.—Did he hearLaughter at his startled ear?Or a bird?—And now, what creatureIs it,—or the wind,—stirs near?Fever of the hunt! This water,Falling here, will cool his head.Through the forest, dyed in slaughter,Slants the sunset; ruby-redAre the drops that slip betweenHollowed hands, while on the green,—Like the couch of some wild daughterOf the forest,—he doth lean.But the runnel, bubbling, dripping,Seems to bid him to be gone;As with crystal words and trippingSteps of sparkle luring on.Now a spirit in the rocksCalls him; now a face that mocks,From behind some boulder slipping,Laughs at him through lilied locks.And he follows through the flowers,Blue and gold, that blossom there;Thridding twilight-haunted bowersWhere each ripple seems the bareBeauty of white limbs that gleamRosy through the running stream;Or bright-shaken hair, that showersStarlight in the sunset’s beam.Till, far in the forest, sleepingLike a luminous darkness, layA deep water, wherein, leaping,Fell the Fountain of the Fay,With a singing, sighing sound,As of spirit things around,Musically laughing, weepingIn the air and underground.Not a ripple o’er it merried:Like the round moon in a cloud,In its rocks the lake lay buried:And strange creatures seemed to crowdIts dark depths: dim limbs and eyesTo the surface seemed to riseSpawn-like; or, all formless, ferriedThrough the water shadow-wise.Foliage things with woman faces,Demon-dreadful, pale and wildAs the forms the lightning tracesOn the clouds the storm has piledIn the darkness.—On the strand—What is that which now doth stand?—’Tis a woman: and she placesOn his arm a spray-white hand.Ah! two mystic worlds of sorrowWere her eyes; her hair, a placeWhence the moon its gold might borrow;And a dream of ice her face:Round her hair and throat in rimsPearls of foam hung; and through whimsOf her robe, as breaks the morrow,Gleamed the rose-light of her limbs.Who could help but gaze with gladnessOn such beauty? though within,Deep within the beryl sadnessOf those eyes, the serpent sinSeemed to coil.—She placed her cheekChilly upon his, and weakWith love-longing and its madnessGrew he. Then he heard her speak:—“Dost thou love me?”—“If surrenderOf the soul means love, I love.”“Dost not fear me?”—“Fear?—more slenderArt thou than a wildwood dove.Yet I fear—I fear to loseThee, thy love.”—“And thou dost chooseAye to be my heart’s defender?”—“Take me. I am thine to use.”“Follow then.—Ah, love, no lowlyHome I give thee.”—With fixed eyesTo the water’s edge she slowlyDrew him.... Nor did he surmiseWho this creature was, untilO’er his face the foam closed chill,Whispering, and the lake unholyRippled, rippled and was still.

THE SUCCUBA

I have dreams where I believeThat a queen of some dim palace,One, whose name is Genevieve,Weighs me with her love or malice:She is dead and yet my bride:And she glimmers at my sideOffering a crystal chaliceFilled with fire, diamond-dyed.I have dreams. Ah, would that IMight forget them!—I rememberHow her gaze, all icilyDraws me, like a glowing ember,Up her castle-stair’s pale-pavedAlabaster, from the wavedOcean, grayer than November,Where I linger, soul-enslaved.Walls of shadow and of nightLit with casements full of fire,Somber red or piercing white:As the wind breathes lower, higher,Round the towers spirit-thingsWhisper, and the haunted stringsMoan of each huge, plangent lyreSet upon its four chief wings.In its corridors at trystFlame-eyed phantoms meet. Its sparryHalls are misty amethyst:Battlemented ’neath the starrySkies it looms; the strange unknownSkies where, green as glow-worms, sown,Gloom the stars; the moon hangs barryBeryl, low and large and lone....Can it be a witch is she?Or a vampire? she, far whiterThan the spirits of the sea!—She whose eyes are cold, yet brighterThan her throat’s pale jewels. Lo!Flame she is though seeming snow:And her love lies tighter, tighterOn my heart than utter woe.Though I dream, it seems I live;And my heart is sick with sorrowOf the love that it must giveTo her; passion, it must borrowOf herself, unhallowed, vain;Then return it her again:Thus she holds me; and to-morrowStill will hold with sweetest pain.In her garden’s moon-white spaceStrangest flowers bloom: huge lilies,Each one with a human face;Knots of spirit-amaryllis;Cactus-bulks with pulpy bloomsGnome-like in the silver glooms;And dim deeps of daffadillies,Fay-like, brimming faint perfumes.But to me their fragrance seemsPoison; and their lambent lustre,Spun of twilight and of dreams,Poison; and each pearly clusterHides a serpent’s fang. And I,Looking from an oriel, sigh;For my soul is fain to musterHeart to breathe of them and die.Then I feel big eyes, as brightAs the sea-stars. Gray with glitter,She behind me, moony white,Smiles, ’mid hangings wherein flitterLoves and deeds of AmadisDarkly worked. And then her kissOn my mouth falls; sweet and bitterWith a bliss that is not bliss.And I kiss her eyes and hair;Smooth her tresses till their goldenGlimmer sparkles. EverywhereShapes of strange aromas, holdenOf the walls, around us troop;And in golden loop on loop,—Of the lull’d eyes vague beholden,—Forms of music o’er us stoop.Yet I see beneath it all,All this sorcery, a devil,Beautiful, and white, and tall,Broods with shadowy eyes of evil:She, who must resume with mornHer true shape: a cactus-thorn,Monstrous, on some lonely levelOf that demon-world forlorn.I have dreams where I believeThat a queen of some dim palace,One, whose name is Genevieve,Weighs me with her love or malice:And all night I am her slaveThere beside the demon wave,Where I drain the loathsome chaliceOf her love, that is my grave.

MASKS

Cucullus non facit monachumLive it down! as you have spokenYou could live it ere you knewWhat love was—“a bauble broken,Foolish, of a thing untrue.”—You, Viola, with your beauty,Cloistered, die a nun? No! you—You must wed: it is your duty.There’s your poniard; for the secondIn this tazza dropped: the bloodOn it scarcely hard.... I reckonedHappily that hour we stoodThere upon your palace-stairway,How, with the Franciscan hoodCowled, I said, there was a bare way.In the minster there I found it—Our revenge. I saw him, wild,Stalking towards the church: around itDogged him, marking how he smiledIn the moonlight where I waited.When the great clock, beating, dialedTen, I knew he would be mated.Heaven or my better devil!—Hardly had his sword and plumeVanished in the dark, when, levelOn the long lagoon, did loom,Under moonlight-woven arches,Her slim gondola: all gloom:One tall gondolier: no torches.Dusky gondolas kept bringingRevellers: and far the nightRang with instruments and singing.—From the imbricated lightOf the oar-vibrating water,Gliding up the stairway, white,Velvet-masked,—the count’s own daughter!Quick I met her: whispered, “Flora,Gaston.—Mia, till they go,One brief moment here, Siora.—She’ll perceive us—she, below,See! the duchess’ diamonds sparklingRound the inviolable glowOf her throat—there, dimly darkling:“That’s Viola!” … Thus I drew herIn the church’s ancient pile—Under her black mask I knew her,By her chin, her lips, her smile.Through one marble-foliatedWindow fell the moon-rays. WhileAll the maskers passed we waited.I had drawn the dagger. TurningCalled her by her name. Some lieOf a passion sighed, her burningHand in mine; when, stalking by,In the square, his form bejeweledGleamed. My very blood burned dryWith the hate his presence fueled.Our revenge! up-pushing slightlyCowl, the mask fell, and revealedBalka, as the poniard whitelyFlashed. The hollow nave re-pealedOne long shriek the loft repeated.Swift, I stabbed her thrice. She reeledDead. I thought of you, the heatedHorror on my hands; and tarriedStill as silence. Drawn asideOn her face the mask hung, marriedTo its camphor-pallor: wideEyes with terror—stone. One secondI regretted; then defiedAll remorse. Your promise beckoned;And I left her. Love had pointedMe this way. I walked the wayClear-eyed and … it has anointedUs fast lovers?—Do not say,Now, that you will go and nun it!For this man who scorned you?—Nay!—Live to hate him! You ’ve begun it.

CARMEN

La Gitanilla, tall dragoonsIn Andalusian afternoons,With ogling eye and compliment,Smiled on you as along you wentSome sleepy street of old Seville;Twirled with a military skillMoustaches; buttoned uniformsOf Spanish yellow bowed your charms.Proud, wicked head, and hair blue-black,Whence the mantilla, half thrown back,Discovered shoulders and bold breastBohemian brown. And you were dressedIn some short skirt of gypsy redOf smuggled stuff; and stockings,—deadWhite silk,—that, worn with many a hole,Let the plump leg peep through; while stole,Now in, now out, your dainty toes,Sheathed in morocco shoes, with bowsOf scarlet ribbon.—FlirtinglyYou walked by me; and I did seeYour oblique eyes, your sensuous lipThat gnawed the rose I saw you flipAt bashful José’s nose while loudThe gaunt guards laughed among the crowd.And in your brazen chemise thrust,Heaved with the swelling of your bust,A bunch of white acacia bloomsWhiffed past my nostrils hot perfumes.As in a cool neveriaI ate an ice with Mérimée,Dark Carmencita, very gayYou passed, with light and lissome tread,All holiday bedizenéd;A new mantilla on your head:Your crimson dress gleamed, spangled fierce;And crescent gold, hung in your ears,Shone, wrought Morisco; and each shoe,Of Cordovan leather, buckled blue,Glanced merriment; and from large armsTo well-turned ankles all your charmsBlew flutterings and glitteringsOf satin bands and beaded strings:Around each tight arm, twisted goldCoiled serpents, and, a single fold,Wreathed wrists; each serpent’s jeweled head,With rubies set, convulsive red.In flowers and trimmings, to the jarOf mandolin and gay guitar,You in the grated patioDanced: the curled coxcombs’ staring rowRang pleased applause. I saw you dance,With wily motion and glad glance,Voluptuous, the wild romalis,Where every movement was a kiss,A song, a poem, interwoundWith your Basque tambourine’s dull sound.I,—as the ebon castanetsClucked out dry time in unctuous jets,—Saw angry José through the grateGlare on us, a pale face of hate,When some indecent officerPresumed too lewdly to you there.Some still night in Seville: the streetCandilejo: two shadows meet:Swift sabres flash within the moon—Clash rapidly.—A dead dragoon.

AT NINEVEH

There was a princess once, who loved the slaveOf an Assyrian king, her father; knownAt Nineveh as Hadria; o’er whose graveThe sands of centuries have long been blown;Yet sooner shall the night forget its starsThan love her story:—How, unto his throne,One day she came, where, with his warriors,The King sat in his hall of audience,’Mid pillared trophies of barbaric wars,And, kneeling to him, asked, “O father, whenceComes love and why?”—He, smiling on her said,—“O Hadria, love is of the gods, and henceDivine, is only soul-interpreted.But why love is, ah, child, we do not know,Unless ’t is love that gives us life when dead.”—And then his daughter, with a face aglowWith all the love that clamored in her bloodIts sweet avowal, lifted arms of snow,And, like Aurora’s rose, before him stood,Saying,—“Since love is of the powers above,I love a slave, O Asshur!—Let the goodThe gods have giv’n be sanctioned.—Speak not ofDishonor and our line’s ancestral dead!They are imperial dust. I live and love.”—Black as black storm then rose the King and said,—A lightning gesture sweeping at her there,—“Enough! ho, Rhana, strike me off her head!”And at the mandate, with his limbs half bareA slave strode forth. Majestic was his formAs some young god’s. He, gathering up her hair,Wound it three times around his sinewy arm;Then drew his sword. It for one moment shoneA semicircling light, and, dripping warm,Lifting the head he stood before the throne.Then said the despot, “By the horn of Bel!This was no child of mine!”—Like chiseled stoneStern stood the slave, a son of Israel.Then striding towards the monarch, in his eyeThe wrath of heaven and the hate of hell,Shrieked, “Beast! I loved her! look on us and die!”Swifter than fire clove him to the brain.Then kissed her face, and, holding it on high,Cried out, “Judge thou, O God, between us twain!”And, fifty daggers in his heart, fell slain.

SENORITA

An agate black, her roguish eyesClaim no proud lineage of the skies,No starry blue; but of good earthThe reckless witchery and mirth.Looped in her raven hair’s repose,A hot aroma, one red roseDroops; envious of that loveliness,Through being near which, its is less.Twin sea-shells hung with pearls, her ears;Whose delicate rosiness appearsPart of the pearls; whose pallid fireBinds the attention these inspire.One slim hand crumples up the laceAbout her bosom’s swelling grace;A ruby at her samite throatLends the required color-note.The moon brings up the violet nightAn urn of pearly-chaliced light;And from the dark-railed balconyShe stoops and waves her fan at me.O’er orange blossoms and the roseVague, odorous lips the South Wind blows,Peopling the night with whispers ofRomance and palely passionate love.And now she speaks; and seems to reachMy soul like song that learned its speechFrom some dim instrument—who knows?—Or flow’r, a dulcimer or rose.

SINCE THEN

I found myself among the treesWhat time the reapers ceased to reap;And in the sunflower-blooms the beesHuddled brown heads and went to sleep,Rocked by the balsam-breathing breeze.I saw the red fox leave his lair,A shaggy shadow, on the knoll;And, tunnelling his thoroughfareBeneath the soil, I watched the mole—Stealth’s own self could not take more care.I heard the death-moth tick and stir,Slow-honeycombing through the bark;I heard the cricket’s drowsy chirr,And one lone beetle burr the dark—The sleeping woodland seemed to purr.And then the moon rose: and a whiteLow bough of blossoms—grown almostWhere, ere you died, ’t was our delightTo tryst,—dear heart!—I thought your ghost:—The wood is haunted since that night.

AFTER DEATH

At moonset, when ghost speaks with ghostAnd spirits meet where once they sinned,Between the whispering wood and coast,My soul met her soul on the wind,My late-lost Evalind.I kissed her mouth. Her face was wild.Two burning shadows were her eyes,Wherein the love,—that once had smiledA heartbreak smile,—in some strange wise,I did not recognize.Then suddenly I seemed to seeHow sin had damned my soul and doomedTo wander thus eternallyWith love and loathing, that assumedThe form of her entombed.

THE OLD MAN DREAMS

The blackened walnut in its spicy hullRots where it fell;And, in the orchard, where the trees stand full,The pear’s brown bellDrops; and the log-house in the bramble lane,From whose low doorStretch yellowing acres of the corn and cane,He sees once more.The cat-bird sings upon its porch of pine;And o’er its gate,All slender-podded, twists the trumpet-vineIts leafy weight:And in the woodland, by the spring, mayhap,With eyes of joyAgain he bends to set a rabbit-trap,A brown-faced boy.Then, whistling, through the underwoods he goes,Out of the wood,Where, with young cheeks, red as an autumn rose,In gingham hood,His sweetheart waits, her school-books on her arm:And now it seemsBeside his chair bends down his wife’s fair form—The old man dreams.

MEMORIES

Here where Love lies perishéd,Look not in upon the dead,Lest the shadowy curtains, shakenIn my Heart’s dark chamber, wakenGhosts, beneath whose garb of sorrowWhilom gladness bows his head:When you come at morn, to-morrow,Look not in upon the dead,Here where Love lies perishéd.Here where Love lies cold interred,Let no syllable be heard,Lest the hollow echoes, housingIn my Soul’s deep tomb, arousingWake a voice of woe, once laughterClaimed and clothed in joy’s own word:When you come at dusk, or after,Let no syllable be heard,Here where Love lies cold interred.