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

II

You say I do not love you!—Yet, I know,When I have heard you speak and dwelt uponYour words a while, my heart has gone awayFilled with strange music, very soft and low,A dim companion, touching with sweet toneThe discords of the day.

III

You say I do not love you!—Yet, it seems,When I have kissed your hand and said farewell,A fragrance, wilder than the wood’s wild bloom,Companions dim my soul and fills, with dreams,The sad and sordid streets where people dwell,Dreams of spring’s wild perfume.

A PUPIL OF PAN

My love’s adorable and wiseAs heaven and the winds of spring:Go thou and gaze into her eyes—Such scholars of the starry skies!—Canst marvel at the thing?My love is like a bud that blowsWith fragrant honey in its heart:Go, watch her smile—Wouldst not supposeShe from some warm, white, serious roseHad learned the happy art?The thoughts she speaks are pearls unstrungThat strew her fancy’s golden floor:Go listen—For, the woods among,She met with Pan, when very young,Who taught her all his lore.

LORA OF THE VALES

Lora is her name that slipsSoft as love between the lips:You must know she is so wiseAll she does is lift her eyes,—Larkspur-blue as April skies,—At her name—and that replies—She ’s so wise, is Lora.Lora is her name whose soundHedges all my heart aroundWith the gold of happiness:When she speaks, you will confess,Music’s self her words express,Every vowel a caress—She ’s so kind, is Lora.Lora is her name that bringsThoughts to me of morning things:Songs of birds; of bees that creepIn the rumpled bluebells deep;Butterflies, that, half asleep,On some rose their vigil keep—She ’s so young, is Lora.Lora, lean to mine your face;So; and round you let me laceOne firm arm, and gently wooYour small mouth, as fresh as dew,Till it says your heart is true,True to me as mine to you,Sunny-hearted Lora!

PLEDGES

I

What the May-apple orWoodland anemone—Star-perfect as a star—Says to the honey-bee:Or to the winds that woo,Filling their hearts with dew:What says the bluet’s blueTo the sun’s ray—do youKnow or do I?—

II

Listen, and you may hearWhat the oxalis saysInto the downy earOf the pale moth that swaysThere on its heart and drinks:Or what the forest-pinksSay to the dew that winks,Butterfly-wing that blinks—Glimmering by.

III

They say: “When April trodBy in a blowing blush,—Wise as a word of GodHolding all Heaven a-hush,—Singing a song of love,We, as she passed above,Sprang from the notes thereof,Filling with joy each grove,Beauty and mystery.”

ORIENTAL ROMANCE

I

Beyond lost seas of summer sheDwelt on an island of the sea,Last scion of that dynasty,Queen of a race forgotten long,—With eyes of light and lips of song,From seaward groves of blowing lemon,She called me in her native tongue,Low-leaned on some rich robe of Yemen.

II

I was a king. Three moons we droveAcross green gulfs, the crimson cloveAnd cassia spiced, to claim her love.Packed was my barque with gums and gold;Rich fabrics; sandalwood, grown oldWith odor; gems; and pearls of Oman,—Than her white breasts less white and cold;—And myrrh, less fragrant than this woman.

III

From Bassora I came. We sawHer condor castle on a clawOf soaring precipice, o’eraweThe surge and thunder of the spray:Like some great opal, far awayIt shone, with battlement and spire,Wherefrom, with wild aroma, dayBlew splintered lights of sapphirine fire.

IV

Lamenting caverns, dark and deep,That catacombed the haunted steep,Led upward to her castle-keep …Fair as the moon, whose light is shedIn Ramadan, was she, who ledMy love unto her island bowers,To find her … lying young and deadAmong her maidens and her flowers.

THE TOLLMAN’S DAUGHTER

She stood waist-deep among the briers:Above, in twisted lengths, were rolledThe sunset’s tangled whorls of gold,Blown from the west’s cloud-pillared fires.And in the hush, no sound did mar,You almost heard, o’er hill and dell,Deep, bubbling over, star on star,The night’s blue cisterns slowly well.A crane, a shadowy crescent, crossedThe sunset, winging ’thwart the west;While up the east her silver breastOf light the moon brought, white as frost.So have I painted her, you see,The tollman’s daughter.—What an armAnd throat were hers! and what a form!—Art dreams of such divinity.What braids of night to smooth and kiss!—There is no pigment anywhereA man might use to picture this—The splendor of her raven hair.A face as beautiful and bright,As rosy fair as twilight skies,Lit with the stars of hazel eyesAnd eyebrowed black with penciled night.For her, I know, where’er she trodEach dewdrop raised a looking-glass,To catch her image, from the grass;That wildflowers bloomed along the sod,And whispered perfume when she smiled;The wood-bird hushed to hear her song,Or, heart-enamoured, tame though wild,Before her feet flew fluttering long:The brook went mad with melody,Eddied in laughter when she kissedWith naked feet its amethyst—And I—she was my world, ah me!

CREOLE SERENADE

Under moss-draped oak and pine,Murmuring, falls the fountained stream;In its pool the lilies shine,Silvery, each a glimmering gleam.Roses bloom and roses dieIn the warm rose-scented dark,Where the firefly, like an eye,Winks and glows, a golden spark.Amber-belted through the nightDrifts the alabaster moon,Like a big magnolia whiteOn the fragrant heart of June.With a broken syrinx there,With bignonia overgrown,Is it Pan in hoof and hair?—Or his image carved from stone?See! her casement’s jessamines part;—Through their stars and swooning scentLike the moon she leans. O heart,’T is another firmament!

Sings:

The dim verbena drugs the duskWith lemon odors; everywhereWan heliotropes breathe drowsy muskInto the jasmine-heavy air;The moss-rose bursts its dewy huskAnd spills its attar there.The orange at thy casement flingsStar-censers oozing rich perfumes;The clematis, long-petaled, swingsDeep clusters of dark purple blooms;With flowers, like moons or sylphide wings,Magnolias light the glooms.Awake, awake from sleep!Thy balmy hair,Unbounden, deep on deep,Like blossoms there,—That dew and fragrance weep,—Will fill the night with prayer.Awake, awake from sleep!And dreaming here it seems to meA dryad’s bosom grows confessed,Nude in the dark magnolia tree,That rustles with the murmurous West—Or is it but some bloom I see,White as thy virgin breast?Through Southern heavens above are rolledA million feverish stars, that burst,Like gems, from out the caskets oldOf night, with fires that throb and thirst:An oleander, showering gold,The heav’n seems, star-immersed.Unseal, unseal thine eyes!—Too long her rodQueen Mab sways o’er their skiesIn realms of Nod!—Their starry majestiesWill fill the night with God.Unseal, unseal thine eyes!

IDEAL DIVINATION

How I have thought of her,Her I have never seen!—Now from a raying airShe, like the Magdalene,Flowers—a face serene,Radiant with raven hair.Now in a balsam scentLaughs from the stars that gleam;Naked and redolent,Bends to me breasts of beam,Eyes that were made to dream,Throat that the dimples dent.Would she were real, ah me!Would she were real and here!And no “impossible she”!But one to draw me near,Hold me and name me dear!—But, that can never be!“Living, each learns to knowLife is not worth its pain;Loving, each finds a woeOr, at the end, a chain:Fardled of hope we strainWhither no hope may know.“Life is too credulousOf time that beckons on.Memory still serves us thus—Gauging each coming dawnBy a day dead and gone,Day that ’s a part of us.”So says my soul, that ’s mockedHere of the flesh and held;Ever rebellion rocked,Fighting, forever quelled;Titan-like, fate-compelled,Yearning to rise, but lockedSupine where torrents pourHellward; on crags that, high,Scarred of the thunder, goreHeaven.... The vulture’s eyeSwims, and the harpies’ cryClangs through the ocean’s roar....Then, like æolian light,Calling, it hears her lips:Scorched by her burning whiteSplendor of arms and hips,Slimy each horror slipsBack to its native night....Rul’st thou some brighter star?Inviolable queenOf what the destinies are?Thou, with thy light unseenFilling my life with sheen,Leading my soul afar!Thou, who oft leav’st thy skies,Comest in dreams to me,With amaranthine eyes,Asphodel shadowyHair, and mysteriouslySay’st to my heart, “Arise!“Be not afraid to dareAll of life’s tyranny!I will reward thee there!There, where my love shall beThine to eternity!—Only be brave and bear!”

APOCALYPSE

Before I found her I had foundWithin my heart, as in a brook,Reflections of her: now a soundOf imaged beauty, now a look.So when I found her, gazing inThose Bibles of her eyes, aboveAll earth, I saw no word of sin;Their holy chapters all were love.I read them through. I read and sawThe soul impatient of the sod—Her soul, that through her eyes did drawMine—to the higher love of God.

CAN I FORGET?

Can I forget how Love once led the waysOf our two lives together, joining them;How every hour was his anadem,And every day a tablet in his praise!Can I forget how, in his garden’s place,Among the purple roses, stem to stem,We heard the rumor of his robe’s bright hem,And saw the aureate radiance of his face!—Though I beheld my soul’s high dreams down-hurled,And Falsehood sit where Truth once towered white,And in Love’s place usurping Lust and Shame,Though flowers be dead within the winter world,Are flowers not there? and starless though the night,Are stars not there, eternal and the same?

MY ROSE

There was a rose in Eden once: it growsOn Earth now, sweeter for its rare perfume:And Paradise is poorer by one bloom,And Earth is richer. In this blossom glowsMore loveliness than old seragliosOr courts of kings did ever yet illume:More purity than ever yet had roomIn soul of nun or saint.—O human rose!—Who art initial and sweet period ofMy heart’s divinest sentence; where I readLove, first and last, and in the pauses, love;Who art the dear ideal of each deedThrough which my life is strong to attain its goal,—Set in the mystic garden of my soul!

RESTRAINT

Dear heart and love! what happiness is itTo watch the firelight’s varying shade and shineOn thy young face; and through those eyes of thine—As through clear windows—to behold them flit,In sumptuous chambers of thy mind’s chaste wit,Thy soul’s fair fancies! then to take in mineThy hand, whose pressure brims my heart’s divineHushed rapture as with music exquisite!When I remember how thy look and touchSway, like the moon, my blood with ecstasy,I dare not think to what fierce heaven might leadThy soft embrace; or in thy kiss how muchSweet hell,—beyond all help of me,—might be,Where I were lost, where I were lost indeed!

IN JUNE

I

Hotly burns the amaryllis,Starred with ruby red:Coolly stand the snowy liliesIn the lily-bed:Emerald gleams the wild May-apple,’Neath its parasol,And where gold the sunbeams dappleWoods, and thrushes call,Marion strolls with Moll,Singing, “Fol-de-rol;Fol-de, fol-de-rol.

II

“March was but a blustering liar;April, sad as night:May, a milkmaid from the byre,Full of love but light.June, sweet June!—ah! she’s My Lady,Fair and fine and tall,Strolling down the woodways shady—June is best of all!She is like my Moll!Fol-de-rol-de-rol!She is like sweet Moll!”

WILL O’ THE WISPS

Beyond the barley meads and hay,What was the light that beckoned there?That made her young lips smile and say:“Oh, busk me in a gown of May,And knot red poppies in my hair.”Over the meadow and the woodWhat was the voice that filled her ears?That sent into pale cheeks the blood,Until each seemed a wild-brier budMowed down by mowing harvesters?…Beyond the orchard, down the hill,The water flows, the water swirls;And there they found her past all ill,Her pale dead face, sweet, smiling still,The cresses caught among her curls.At twilight in the willow glenWhat sound is that the silence hears,When deep the dusk is hushed again,And homeward from the fields strong menAnd women go, the harvesters?One seeks the place where she is laid,Where violets bloom from year to year—“O sunny head! O bird-like maid!The orchard blossoms fall and fadeAnd I am lonely, lonely here.”Two stars look down upon the vale;They seem to him the eyes of Ruth:The low moon rises very paleAs if she, too, had heard the tale,All heartbreak, of a maid and youth.

IN A GARDEN

The pink rose drops its petals onThe moonlit lawn, the moonlit lawn;The moon, like some wide rose of white,Drops down the summer night.No rose there isAs sweet as this—Thy mouth, that greets me with a kiss.The lattice of thy casement twinesWith jasmine vines, with jasmine vines;The stars, like jasmine blossoms, lieAbout the glimmering sky.No jasmine tressCan so caressLike thy white arms’ soft loveliness.About thy door magnolia bloomsMake sweet the glooms, make sweet the glooms;A moon-magnolia is the duskClosed in a dewy husk.However much,No bloom gives suchSoft fragrance as thy bosom’s touch.The flowers blooming now will pass,And strew the grass, and strew the grass;The night, like some frail flower, dawnWill soon make gray and wan.Still, still above,The flower ofTrue love shall live forever, Love.

“IF I WERE HER LOVER”

I

If I were her lover,I’d wade through the cloverOver the fields beforeThe gate that leads to her door;Over the meadows,To wait, ’mid the shadows,The shadows that circle her door,For the heart of my heart and more.And there in the cloverClose by her,Over and overI’d sigh her:“Your eyes are as brownAs the Night’s, looking downOn waters that sleepWith the moon in their deep” …If I were her lover to sigh her.

II

If I were her lover,I’d wade through the cloverOver the fields beforeThe lane that leads to her door;I’d wait, ’mid the thickets,Or there by the pickets,White pickets that fence in her door,For the life of my life and more.I’d lean in the clover—The crisperFor the dews that are over—And whisper:“Your lips are as rareAs the dewberries there,As ripe and as red,On the honey-dew fed” …If I were her lover to whisper.

III

If I were her lover,I’d wade through the cloverOver the fields beforeThe pathway that leads to her door;And watch, in the twinkleOf stars that sprinkleThe paradise over her door,For the soul of my soul and more.And there in the cloverI’d reach her;And over and overI’d teach her—A love without sighs,Of laughterful eyes,That reckoned each secondThe pause of a kiss,A kiss and … that isIf I were her lover to teach her.

NOËRA

Noëra, when sad fallHas grayed the fallow,Leaf-cramped the wood-brook’s brawlIn pool and shallow;When, by the wood-side, tallStands sere the mallow:Noëra, when gray goldAnd golden grayThe crackling hollows foldBy every way,Shall I thy face behold,Dear bit of May?When webs are cribs for dew,And gossamersStreak past you, silver-blue;When silence stirsOne leaf, of rusty hue,Among the burrs:Noëra, thro’ the wood,Or thro’ the grain,Come, with the hoiden moodOf wind and rainFresh in thy sunny blood,Sweetheart, again!Noëra, when the corn,Heaped on the fields,The asters’ stars adorn—And purple shieldsOf ironweeds lie tornAmong the wealds:Noëra, haply then,Thou being with me,Each ruined greenwood glenWill bud and beSpring’s with the spring again,The spring in thee.Thou of the breezy tread,Feet of the breeze:Thou of the sunbeam head,Heart like a bee’s:Face like a woodland-bredAnemone’s.Thou to October bringAn April part!Come, make the wild-birds sing,The blossoms start!Noëra, with the springWild in thy heart!Come with our golden year;Come as its gold:With the same laughing, clear,Loved voice of old:In thy cool hair one dearWild marigold.

AMONG THE ACRES OF THE WOOD

I

“I know, I know;The way doth goAthwart a greenwood glade, oh!White bloom the wild-plums in that glade,White as the bosom of the maidWho, stooping, sits, and milks and singsAmong the dew-dashed clover rings,When fades the flush, the henna blush,The orange-glow of sunset low,And all the winds are laid, oh!”

II

“I wot, I wot.—And is it notRight o’er the viney hill?—”“Yea: where the wild-grapes mat and makePenthouses of each bramble-brake,And dangle plumes of fragrant blooms:Where threads of sunbeams string the gloomsWith beaded gold; and flowers unfoldTheir eyes of blue;—and all night throughSings, wildly shrill, one whippoorwill.”

III

“I ween, I ween,The path is green’Neath beechen boughs that letSoft glimpses of the sapphire skyGleam downward like a wood-nymph’s eye:At night one far and lambent starShines o’er it, like a watching Lar,’Mid branching buds a tangled budAmong the acres of the wood,Where blooms the wet wild violetAnd only we have, trysting, met.”

WORDS

I can not tell what I would tell thee,What I would say, what thou shouldst hear;Words of the soul that should compel thee,Words of the heart to draw thee near.For when thou smilest, thou, who fillestMy life with joy, and I would speak,’Tis then my lips and tongue are stillest,Knowing all language is too weak.Look in my eyes: read there confession:The truest love hath least of art:Nor needs it words for its expressionWhen soul speaks soul and heart speaks heart.

THE SIRENS

Wail! wail! and smite your lyres’ sonorous gold,And beckon naked beauty; luring meWith arms and breasts and hips of godly mold,Dark, wind-wild locks seen through the surf-blown sea!Vain all your magic! dull in unclosed ears!Beside one voice sweet-calling o’er the foam,That, in my heart, like some strong hand appearsTo gently, firmly draw my vessel home.

WHY?

Why are the bright stars brighter after rain?Why is strong love the stronger after pain?Reply, reply!Why sings the wild swan heavenliest when it dies?Why is fair love the fairest when it flies?Oh why! Oh why!Why are sweet kisses sweetest when they’re dead?Why is love loveliest when ’tis buriéd?Reply, reply!

NOCTURNE

A disc of violet blue,Rimmed with a thorn of fire,The new moon hangs in a sky of dew;And under the vines, where the sunset’s hueIs blent with blooms, first one, then two,Begins the crickets’ choir.Bright blurs of golden white,With points of pearly glimmer,The first stars wink in the web of night;And through the flowers the moths take flight,In the honeysuckle-colored light,Where the shadowy shrubs grow dimmer.Soft through the dim and dying eve,Sweet through the dusk and dew,Come, while the hours their witchcraft weave,Dim in the House of the Soul’s-sweet-leave,Here in the pale and perfumed eve,Here where I wait for you.A great, dark, radiant rose,Dripping with starry glower,Is the night, whose bosom overflowsWith the balsam musk of the breeze that blowsInto the heart, as each one knows,Of every nodding flower.A voice that sighs and sighs,Then whispers like a spirit,Is the wind, that kisses the drowsy eyesOf the primrose open, and, rocking, liesIn the lily’s cradle, and soft untiesThe rose-bud’s crimson near it.Sweet through the deep and dreaming night,Soft through the dark and dew,Come, where the moments their magic write,Deep in the Book of the Heart’s-delight,Here in the hushed and haunted night,Here where I wait for you.

METAMORPHOSIS

Before Love’s lofty goddess—Life hath toiledTo mold from burning dew and dewy fire—Who kneel and worship with a heart sin-soiled,Within the secret Temple of Desire;Their curse is such: that, even while they pray,—They shall not see, nor shall they know thereof!—Their Deity is changed from fire to clay—Lust! fashioned in the very form of Love.

AT TWENTY-ONE

The rosy hills of her high breasts,Whereon, like misty morning, restsThe breathing lace; her auburn hair,Wherein, a star-point sparkling there,One jewel burns: her eyes, that keepRecorded dreams of love and sleep:Her mouth, with whose comparisonThe richest rose were poor and wan:Her throat, her form—what masterpieceOf man can picture half of these!—She comes! a classic from the handOf God! wherethrough I understandWhat Nature means and Art and Love,And all the immortal myths thereof.

KINSHIP

There is no flower of wood or lea,No April flower, as fair as she:O white anemone, who hastThe wind’s wild grace,Know her a cousin of thy race,Into whose faceA presence like the wind’s hath passed.There is no flower of wood or lea,No May-day flower, as fair as she:O bluebell, tender with the blueOf sapphire skies,Thy lineage hath kindred tiesIn her, whose eyesThe heaven’s own qualities imbue.There is no flower of wood or lea,No June-time flower, as fair as she:Rose,—odorous with beauty ofHer lips that pressed,—Behold thy sister here confessed!Whose maiden breastIs fragrant with the dreams of love.

“SHE IS SO MUCH”

She is so much to me, to me,And, oh, I love her so,I look into my soul and seeHow comfort keeps me companyIn hopes she, too, may know.I love her, I love her, I love her,This I know.So dear she is to me, so dear,And, oh, I love her so,I listen in my heart and hearThe voice of gladness singing nearIn thoughts she, too, may know.I love her, I love her, I love her,This I know.So much she is to me, so much,And, oh, I love her so,In heart and soul I feel the touchOf angel callers, that are suchDreams as she, too, may know.I love her, I love her, I love her,This I know.

HER EYES

In her dark eyes dreams poetize;The soul sits lost in love:There is no thing in all the skies,To gladden all the world I prize,Like the deep love in her dark eyes,Or one sweet dream thereof.In her dark eyes, where thoughts arise,Her soul’s soft moods I see:Of hope and faith, that make life wise;And charity, whose food is sighs—Not truer than her own true eyesIs truth’s divinity.In her dark eyes the knowledge liesOf an immortal sod,Her soul once trod in angel guise,Nor can forget its heavenly ties,Since, there in Heaven, upon her eyesOnce gazed the eyes of God.

MESSENGERS

The wind, that gives the rose a kiss,With murmured music of the south,Hath kissed a sweeter thing than this;—The wind, that gives the rose a kiss,—Hath kissed the red rose of her mouth.The brook, that mirrors skies and trees,And echoes in a grottoed place,Hath held a fairer thing than these;—The brook, that mirrors skies and trees,Hath held the image of her face.O happy wind! O happy brook!What message from her do you bear?—“We bear from her her kiss and look—”O happy wind! O happy brook!—“That blessed us unaware.”

APART

I

While sunset burns and stars are few,And roses scent the fading light;And, like a slim urn, dripping dew,A spirit carries through the night,The pearl-pale moon hangs new,—I think of you, of you.

II

While waters flow, and soft winds wooThe golden-hearted bud with sighs;And, like a flower an angel threw,Out of the momentary skiesA star falls, burning blue,—I dream of you, of you.

III

While love believes and hearts are true,So let me think, so let me dream;The thought and dream so wedded toYour face, that, far apart, I seemTo see each thing you do,And be with you, with you.

THE BLIND GOD

I know not if she be unkind;If she have faults, I do not care.Search through the world—where will you findA face like hers, a form, a mind?—I love her to despair!If she be cruel, crueltyIs a great virtue, I will swear:If she be proud, then pride must beBetter than all humility.—I love her to despair!Why speak to me of that or this?All you may say weighs not a hair!To me, naught but perfection isIn her, whose lips I may not kiss!—I love her to despair!

CARA MIA

I

Sweet lips, where kisses sleep,Soft eyes, so filled with dreams,Waken, oh waken!Open your blossoms deep,Sweet lips, where kisses sleep:Unfold your brightest beams,Soft eyes, so filled with dreams:Waken, oh, waken!

II

Sweet lips, that give perfume,Soft eyes, that kindle light,Come, let me kiss you!—To every flower in bloom,Sweet lips, you lend perfume!In every star at night,Soft eyes, you kindle light!—Come, let me kiss you!

III

Who would not love to rest?Who would not love to lie?Who would not love them?Of such sweet flowers caressed,Who would not love to rest?With such stars in their sky,Who would not love to lie?Who would not love them?