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

MARCH AND MAY

Windy the sky and mad;Surly the gray March day;Bleak the forests and sad,—Oh, that it only were May!On maples, tasseled with red,No blithe bird, fluting, swung;The brook, in its swollen bed,Raved on in an unknown tongue.We walked in the wind-tossed wood:Her face as the May’s was fair;Her blood was the May’s own blood;And May’s her radiant hair.And we found in the woodland wildOne cowering violet,Like a frail and timorous child,In the caked leaves bowed and wet.And I said, “We have walked in vain!To find but this shivering bud,Weighed down with its weight of rain,Crouched here in the wild March wood.”But she said, “Though the day be sad,And the skies be dark with fate,There is always something gladThat will help our hearts to wait.“Look, now, at this beautiful thing,In this wood’s wild hollow curled!’Tis a promise of joy and spring,And of love, to the waiting world.“Ah, the sinless Earth is fair,And man’s are the sin and the gloom—Come, bury the days that were,And look to’ard the days to come!”* * *And the May came on with her charms,With twinkle and rustle of feet;Blooms stormed from her luminous armsAnd songs that were wildly sweet.Now I think of her words that day,This day that I longed so to see,That finds her dead with the May,And my life but a withered tree.

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!”

“WHEN SHE DRAWS NEAR”

I

When she draws near,I seem to hearThe shy approach of some wild innocence:As if—in acorn crown—A dryad should step downFrom some dim oak-tree where the woods are dense.

II

When she’s with me,I seem to seeThe brambles blossom where just touched her dress:As, with her love’s perfume,She touches into bloomThe thorns of life and gives them loveliness.

REED CALL FOR APRIL

I

When April comes, and pelts with budsAnd apple-blooms each orchard space,And takes the dogwood-whitened woodsWith rain and sunshine of her moods,Like your fair face, like your sweet face:It’s honey for the bud and dew,And honey for the heart!And, oh, to be away with youBeyond the town and mart.

II

When April comes and tints the hillsWith gold and beryl that rejoice,And from her airy apron spillsThe laughter of the winds and rills,Like your young voice, like your sweet voice:It’s gladness for God’s bending blue,And gladness for the heart!And, oh, to be away with youBeyond the town and mart.

III

When April comes, and binds and girdsThe world with warmth that breathes above,And to the breeze flings all her birds,Whose songs are welcome as the wordsOf you I love, O you I love:It’s music for all things that woo,And music for the heart!And, oh, to be away with youBeyond the town and mart.

HER VIOLIN

I

Her violin!—Again beginThe dream-notes of her violin;And tall and fair, with gold-brown hair,I seem to see her standing there,Soft-eyed and sweetly slender:The room again, with strain on strain,Vibrates to Love’s melodious pain,As, sloping slow, is poised her bow,While round her form the golden glowOf sunset spills its splendor.

II

Her violin!—Now deep, now thin,Again I hear her violin;And, dream by dream, again I seemTo see the love-light’s tender gleamBeneath her eyes’ long lashes:While to my heart she seems a partOf her pure song’s inspired art;And, as she plays, the rosy graysOf twilight halo hair and face,While sunset burns to ashes.

III

O violin!—Cease, cease withinMy soul, O haunting violin!In vain, in vain, you bring again,Back from the past, the blissful painOf all the love then spoken;When on my breast, at happy rest,A sunny while her head was pressed—Peace, peace to these wild memories!For, like my heart naught remedies,Her violin lies broken.

MEETING IN SUMMER

A tranquil barOf rosy twilight under dusk’s first star.A glimmering soundOf whispering waters over grassy ground.A sun-sweet smellOf fresh-reaped hay from dewy field and dell.A lazy breezeJostling the ripeness from the apple-trees.A vibrant cry,Passing, then gone, of bullbats in the sky.And faintly nowThe katydid upon the shadowy bough.And far off thenThe little owl within the lonely glen.And soon, full soon,The silvery arrival of the moon.And, to your door,The path of roses I have trod before.And, sweetheart, you!Among the roses and the moonlit dew.

HER VIVIEN EYES

Her Vivien eyes,—beware! beware!—Though they be stars, a deadly snareThey set beneath her night of hair.Regard them not! lest, drawing near—As sages once in old Chaldee—Thou shouldst become a worshiper,And they thy evil destiny.Her Vivien eyes,—away! away!—Though they be springs, remorseless theyGleam underneath her brow’s bright day.Turn, turn aside, whate’er the cost!Lest in their deeps thou lures behold,Through which thy captive soul were lost,As was young Hylas once of old.Her Vivien eyes,—take heed! take heed!—Though they be bibles, none may readTherein of God or Holy Creed.Look, look away! lest thou be cursed,—As Merlin was, romances tell,—And in their sorcerous spells immersed,Hoping for Heaven thou chance on Hell.I look into thy heart and then I knowThe wondrous poetry of the long-ago

Reasons

REASONS

I

Yea, why I love thee let my heart repeat:I look upon thy face and then divineHow men could die for beauty, such as thine,—Deeming it sweetTo lay my life and manhood at thy feet,And for a word, a glance,Do deeds of old romance.

II

Yea, why I love thee let my heart unfold:I look into thy heart and then I knowThe wondrous poetry of the long-ago,The Age of Gold,That speaks strange music, that is old, so old,Yet young, as when ’t was born,With all the youth of morn.

III

Yea, why I love thee let my heart conclude:I look into thy soul and realizeThe undiscovered meaning of the skies,—That long have wooedThe world with far ideals that elude,—Out of whose dreams, maybe,God shapes reality.

HER VESPER SONG

The summer lightning comes and goesIn one white cloud above the hill,As if within its soft reposeA burning heart were never still—As in my bosom pulses beatBefore the coming of his feet.All drugged with odorous sleep, the roseBreathes dewy balm about the place,As if the dreams the garden knowsArose, in immaterial grace—As in my heart sweet thoughts ariseBeneath the ardour of his eyes.The moon above the darkness showsAn orb of silvery snow and fire,As if the night would now discloseTo heav’n her one divine desire—As in the rapture of his kissAll my glad soul is drawn to his.The cloud divines not that it glows;The rose knows nothing of its scent;Nor knows the moon that it bestowsLight on our earth and firmament—So is the soul unconscious ofThe beauties it reveals through love.

THE GLORY AND THE DREAM

There in the past I see her as of old,Blue-eyed and hazel-haired, within a roomDim with a twilight of tenebrious gold;Her white face sensuous as a delicate bloomNight opens in the tropics. Fold on foldPale laces drape her; and a frail perfume,As of a moonlit lily brimmed with rain,Breathes from her presence, drowsing heart and brain.Her head is bent; some red carnations glowDeep in her heavy hair; her large eyes gleam;—Bright sister stars of those twin worlds of snow,Her breasts, through which the veinéd violets stream.—I hold her hand; her smile comes sweetly slowAs thoughts of love that haunt a poet’s dream:And at her feet once more I sit and hearWild words of passion—dead this many a year.

SNOW AND FIRE

Deep-hearted roses of the purple duskAnd lilies of the morn;And cactus, holding up a slender tuskOf fragrance on a thorn;All heavy flowers, sultry with their musk,Her presence puts to scorn.For she is like the pale, pale snowdrop there,Scentless and chaste of heart;The moonflower, making spiritual the air,Like some pure work of art;Divine and holy, exquisitely fair,And virtue’s counterpart.Yet when her eyes gaze into mine, and whenHer lips to mine are pressed,—Why are my veins all fire then? and thenWhy should her soul suggestVoluptuous perfumes, maddening unto men,And prurient with unrest?

IN MAY

I

When you and I in the hills went Maying,You and I in the bright May weather,The birds, that sang on the boughs together,There in the green of the woods, kept sayingAll that my heart was saying low,“I love you! love you!” soft and low;—And did you know?When you and I in the hills went Maying.

II

There where the brook on its rocks went winking,There by its banks where the May had led us,Flowers, that bloomed in the woods and meadows,Azure and gold at our feet, kept thinkingAll that my soul was thinking there,“I love you! love you!” softly there;—And did you care?There where the brook on its rocks went winking.

III

Whatever befalls through fate’s compelling,Should our paths unite or our pathways sever,In the Mays to-come I shall feel foreverThe wildflowers thinking, the wild-birds telling,In words as soft as the falling dew,The love that I keep here still for you,As deep and true,Whatever befalls through fate’s compelling.

“WERE I AN ARTIST”

Were I an artist, Lydia, IWould paint you as you merit,Not as my eyes, but dreams descry;Not in the flesh, but spirit.The canvas I would paint you onShould be a strip of heaven;My brush, a sunbeam; pigments, dawnAnd night and starry even.Your form and features to expressLikewise your soul’s chaste whiteness,I’d take the primal essencesOf darkness and of brightness.I’d take pure night to paint your hair;Stars for your eyes; and morningTo paint your skin—the rosy airWhich is your limbs’ adorning.To paint the love-bows of your lips,I’d mix, for colors, kisses;And for your breasts and finger-tips,Sweet odors and soft blisses.And to complete the picture well,I’d temper all with woman,—Some tears, some laughter; heaven and hell,To show you yet are human.

THE RIDE

She rode o’er hill, she rode o’er plain,She rode by fields of barley,By morning-glories filled with rain,Along the wood-side gnarly.She rode o’er plain, she rode o’er hill,By orchard land and berry;Her eyes were sparkling as the rill,Cheeks, redder than the cherry.A bird sang here, a bird sang there,Then blithely sang together;Sang sudden greeting everywhere,“Good-morrow!” and “Good weather!”The sunlight’s laughing radianceLaughed in her radiant tresses;The bold breeze made her wild curls dance,And flushed her face with kisses.“Why ride you here, why ride you there,Why ride you here so merry?The sunlight living in your hair,And in your cheek the berry?“Why ride you with your sea-green plumes,Your sea-green silken habit,By balmy bosks of faint perfumes,And haunts of roe and rabbit?”“The morning ploughed the east with gold,And planted it with holly;And I was young and he was old,And rich, and melancholy.“A wife they ’d have me to his bed,And to the church they hurried;But now, gramercy! he is dead!Thank God! is dead and buried.“I ride by tree, I ride by rill,I ride by rye and clover,For by the church beyond the hillAwaits my first true lover.”

AT PARTING

What is there left for us to say,Now it is time to speak good-by?And all our dreams of yesterdayAre one with yester-evening’s sky—What is there left for us to say,Now different ways before us lie?A word of hope, a word of cheer,A word of love, whose help shall last,When we are far to bring us nearThrough memories of the happy past;A word of hope, a word of cheer,To keep our young hearts true and fast.What is there left for us to do,Now it is time to say farewell?And care, that bade us once adieu,Returns again with us to dwell—What is there left for us to do,Now different ways our fates compel?Clasp hands and kiss, touch lips and smile,And look the love that shall remain—When severed so by many a mile—The sweetest balm for bitterest pain:Clasp hands and kiss, touch lips and smile,And trust to God to meet again.

IN THE GARDEN OF GIRLS

Serious, but smiling, stately and serene,And lovelier than a flower,She stands; in whom all sympathies conveneAs perfumes in a bower;Through whom I feel what soul and heart must mean,And all their love and power.Eyes, that commune with the frank skies of truth,Beneath their cloud-like curls;Lips of immortal rose, where joy and youthNestle like priceless pearls;Hair, that suggests the Bible braids of Ruth,Deeper than any girl’s.When first I saw her, ’t was as if withinMy gaze took shape some song—Played by a master of the violin—A music, pure and strong,That rapt my soul above all earthly sinTo heights that know no wrong.

“COME TO THE HILLS”

Come to the hills, the woods are green—The heart is high when lovers meet—There is a brook that flows betweenMossed rocks where we will make our seat,Where we will sit and speak unseen.I hear you laughing in the lane—The heart is high when lovers meet—The clover smells of sun and rainAnd spreads a carpet for our feet,Where we will walk and dream again.Come to the woods, the dusk is here—The heart is high when lovers meet—A bird upon the branches nearSets music to our hearts’ sweet beat,Our hearts that beat with something dear.I hear your step; the lane is passed—The heart is high when lovers meet—The little stars come bright and fast,Like happy eyes that watch us, Sweet,That see us greet and kiss at last.

EVASION

I

Why do I love you, who have never givenMy heart encouragement or any cause?Is it because, as earth is held of heaven,Your soul holds mine by some mysterious laws?Perhaps, unseen of me, within your eyesThe answer lies.

II

From your sweet lips no word hath ever fallenTo tell my heart its love is not in vain—The bee that woos the flow’r hath honey and pollenTo cheer him on and bring him back again:But what have I, your other friends above,To feed my love?

III

Still, still you are my dream and my desire;Your love is an allurement and a dareSet for attainment, like a shining spire,Far, far above me in the starry air:And gazing upward, ’gainst the hope of hope,I breast the slope.

WILL YOU FORGET?

In years to come, will you forget,Dear girl, how often we have met?And I have gazed into your eyesAnd there beheld no sad regretTo cloud the gladness of their skies,While in your heart—unheard as yet—Love slept, oblivious of my sighs?—In years to come, will you forget?Ah, me! I only pray that when,In other days, some man of menHas taught those eyes to laugh and weepWith joy and sorrow, hearts must kenWhen love awakens in their deep,—I only pray some memory then,Or sad or sweet, you still will keepOf me and love that might have been.

CONTRASTS

No eve of summer ever can attainThe gladness of that eve of late July,When ’mid the roses, dripping with the rain,Against the wondrous topaz of the sky,I met you, leaning on the pasture bars,—While heaven and earth grew conscious of the stars.No night of blackest winter can repeatThe bitterness of that December night,When, at your gate, gray-glittering with sleet,Within the glimmering square of window-light,We parted,—long you clung unto my arm,—While heaven and earth surrendered to the storm.

CARISSIMA MEA

I look upon my sweetheart’s face,And, in the world about me, seeNo face like hers in any place.It is not made, as others singOf their young loves, like ivory,But like a wild-rose in the spring.Her brow is low and very fair,And o’er it, smooth and shadowy,Lies deep the darkness of her hair.Beneath her brows her eyes gleam gray,And gaze out glad and fearlessly—Their wonder haunts me night and day.Her eyebrows, arched and delicate,—Twin curves of penciled ebony,—Within their spans contain my fate.Her mouth, that was for kisses curved,—So small and sweet!—it well may beThat it for me is yet reserved.Between her hair and rounded chin,Calm with her soul’s calm purity,There lies no shadow of a sin.Of perfect form, she is not tall,—Just higher than the heart of me,O’er which I place her, all in all.She is not shaped, as some have sungOf their young loves, like some slim tree,But like the moon when it is young.Her hands, that smell of violet,So white and fashioned fragrantly,Have woven round my heart a net.Yea, I have loved her many a day;And though for me she may not be,Still at her feet my love I lay.Albeit she be not for me,God send her grace and grant that sheKnow naught of sorrow all her days,And help me still to sing her praise!

AN AUTUMN NIGHT

Some things are good on autumn nights,When with the storm the forest fights,And in the room the heaped hearth lightsOld-fashioned press and rafter:Plump chestnuts hissing in the heat,A mug of cider, sharp and sweet,And at your side a face petite,With lips of laughter.Upon the roof the rolling rain,And, tapping at the window-pane,The wind that seems a witch’s caneThat summons spells together:A hand within your own a while;A mouth reflecting back your smile;And eyes, two stars, whose beams exileAll thoughts of weather.And, while the wind lulls, still to sitAnd watch her fire-lit needles flitA-knitting, and to feel her knitYour very heart-strings in it:Then, when the old clock ticks “’t is late,”To rise, and at the door to waitTwo words, or, at the garden-gate,A kissing minute.

A DAUGHTER OF THE STATES

She has the eyes of some barbarian QueenLeading her wild tribes into battle; eyes,Wherein th’ unconquerable soul defies,And Love sits throned, imperious and serene.And I have thought that Liberty, aloneAmong her mountain stars, might look like her,Kneeling to God, her only emperor,Kindling her torch on Freedom’s altar-stone.For in her self, regal with riches ofBeauty and youth, again those Queens seem born—Boadicea, meeting scorn with scorn,And Ermengarde, returning love for love.

THE QUARREL

An instant only and her eyesFlashed lightning like the angry skies;And o’er her forehead, curving down,Fell dark the shadow of a frown;Then backward, deep and stormy fair,She tossed the tempest of her hair;Then of her lips’ full rose disdainMade a pink-folded bud again;Then quicker than all utterance,All changed: and at a word, a glance,Her anger rained its tears, then passed;And she was in my arms at last;The austere woman, doubly dear,And lovelier for each falling tear:But why we quarreled, how it grew,I can not tell, I never knew:Perhaps ’t was Love; he, who, with tears,Would show how fair a face appears;As, after storm, the sky ’s more blue,A wildflower ’s fairer for the dew.

MIRIAM

What better praise for all her waysThan that all days her ways illume?Such brightness as the maiden yearKnows, when God’s kindness seems as nearAs flowers whose wisdom ’s but to bloom.Hers the deep hair: a face more fairThan roses June sets blossoming:The sunshine of her gladness gleamsIn bloom-bright lips and cheeks, and dreamsUpon her throat’s soft coloring.Her voice is sweet as birds that greetWith song the coming of the light:The serious happy gleam that liesIn the dark lustre of her eyesIs as the starlight to the night.Beyond the sea such girls as sheIt was whom Titian loved to paint,With calm Madonna eyes, and hairRich auburn; robed in gold and vair,Fair as the vision of a saint.

THE SUMMER SEA

Over the summer sea,When the white-eyed stars look pale,And the moonbeams make a trailOf gold through the waves for me,I turn my ghostly sailAway, away,And follow the form I seeOver the summer sea.Over the misty sea,Ere the cliff which highest soarsFrom the billow-beaten shoresReddens all rosily,Where the witch-white water roars,Far on, far on.Through the foam she beckons meOver the summer sea.Over the haunted sea,When the great, gold moon low liesOn the rim of the western skies,’Twixt the moon, she comes, and me,And gazes in my eyes;Low down, low down,’Twixt the orbéd moon and me,Over the summer sea.Deep in the bitter sea,Wilt thou drag me down, O sweet?Down, down! from hair to feetFilled with thee utterly?Against thy heart’s wild beat?—At last! at last!Wilt drag me down with thee,Deep in the summer sea?

FINALE

So let it be. Thou dare not say ’t was I!—Here in life’s temple, where thy soul can see,Look where the beauty of our love doth lie,Shattered in shards, a dead divinity!—Approach: kneel down: yea, render up one sigh!This is the end. What need to tell it thee!So let it be.So let it be. Care, who hath stood with him,And sorrow, who sat by him deified,—For whom his face made comfort,—lo! how dimThey heap his altar which they can not hide,While memory’s lamp swings o’er it, burning slim.—This is the end. What shall be said beside?So let it be.So let it be. Did we not drain the wine,Red, of love’s sacramental chalice, whenHe laid sweet sanction on thy lips and mine?Dash it aside! Lo, who will fill againNow it is empty of the god divine!—This is the end. Yea, let us say Amen.So let it be.

CONCLUSION

The songs Love sang to us are dead:Yet shall he sing to us again,When the dull days are wrapped in lead,And the red woodland drips with rain.The lily of our love is gone,That graced our spring with golden scent:Now in the garden low uponThe wind-stripped way its stalk is bent.Our rose of dreams is passed away,That lit our summer with sweet fire:The storm beats bare each thorny spray,And its dead leaves are trod in mire.The songs Love sang to us are dead:Yet shall he sing to us again,When the dull days are wrapped in lead,And the red woodland drips with rain.The marigold of memoryShall fill our autumn then with glow:Haply its bitterness will beSweeter for love of long-ago.The cypress of forgetfulnessShall haunt our winter with its hue:Its apathy to us not lessDear for the dreams love’s summer knew.