Produced by Larry B. Harrison, Chuck Greif and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive) THE POEMS OF MADISON CAWEIN VOLUME III NATURE POEMS [Illustration: Undreamed of things that happened long ago Page 8 _A House in the Hills_] THE POEMS OF MADISON CAWEIN _Volume III_ NATURE POEMS _Illustrated_ WITH PHOTOGRAVURES AFTER PAINTINGS BY ERIC PAPE INDIANAPOLIS THE BOBBS-MERRILL COMPANY PUBLISHERS COPYRIGHT 1887, 1888, 1889, 1890, 1892, 1893, 1896, 1898, 1899, 1901, 1902 AND 1907, BY MADISON CAWEIN COPYRIGHT 1896, BY COPELAND AND DAY; 1898, BY R. H. RUSSELL PRESS OF BRAUNWORTH & CO. BOOKBINDERS AND PRINTERS BROOKLYN, N. Y. TO DOCTOR HENRY A. COTTELL WHOSE KIND WORDS OF FRIENDSHIP AND APPROVAL HAVE ENCOURAGED ME WHEN I MOST NEEDED ENCOURAGEMENT CONTENTS PAGE IN THE SHADOW OF THE BEECHES ALONG THE OHIO 56 AMONG THE KNOBS 124 AUTUMN 53 BENEATH THE BEECHES 99 BLACK VESPERâS PAGEANTS 22 BOY COLUMBUS, THE 80 BRIDLE-PATH, THE 101 BROOK, THE 145 âBROKEN RAINBOW ON THE SKIES OF MAY, Aâ 71 COIGNE OF THE FOREST, A 6 DREAM, THE 63 DREAMS 143 FALL FANCIES 134 FALLEN BEECH, A 3 FALLS OF THE OHIO, THE 127 FARMSTEAD, THE 74 FOREST AND FIELD 29 GRASSHOPPER, THE 27 GRAY DAY, A 113 HAUNTED HOUSE, THE 49 HEART Oâ SPRING, THE 69 HEAT 16 HOLLOW OF THE HILLS, A 97 HOUSE IN THE HILLS, A 8 IN THE SHADOW OF THE BEECHES 1 IN THE WILDWOOD 96 INDIAN SUMMER 42 LATE OCTOBER 136 LOG-BRIDGE, THE 121 MILL-WATER, THE 60 MOOD Oâ THE EARTH, THE 116 NIGHT 47 NOONING 119 NORTH BEACH, FLORIDA 82 NOVEMBER WALK, A 138 OLD FARM, THE 106 OLD INN, THE 58 OLD SWING, THE 146 ON THE JELLICO SPUR OF THE CUMBERLANDS 87 ORGIE 73 RAIN IN THE WOODS 13 SLEET-STORM IN MAY, A 67 SPRING TWILIGHT 65 STORM, THE 84 SUMMER 38 TO AUTUMN 148 TO SORROW 44 TO SUMMER 110 TWILIGHT MOTH, A 24 VINTAGER, THE 21 WHIPPOORWILL, THE 94 WHITE EVENING, THE 141 WIND, THE 10 WINTER DREAMS 149 YOUNG SEPTEMBER 19 TANSY AND SWEET-ALYSSUM ABANDONED 233 AFTER LONG GRIEF AND PAIN 171 AIRY TONGUES 184 AMBITION 243 ARCANA 236 AUTUMN SORROW 212 BABY MARY 197 BARE BOUGHS 191 BEFORE THE END 226 BY THE TRYSTING-BEECH 170 CLEARING 210 âCLOUDS OF THE AUTUMN NIGHTâ 167 COLD 228 COMRADERY 174 COMRADES 161 CREEK-ROAD, THE 232 COVERED BRIDGE, THE 231 DARK DAY OF SUMMER, A 213 DAYS AND DAYS 214 DESPAIR 245 DESPONDENCY 244 DROUTH IN AUTUMN 215 DUSK IN THE WOODS 159 FEN-FIRE, THE 199 FLOWER OF THE FIELDS, A 153 FULFILLMENT 237 HAUNTED WOODLAND, THE 172 HILLS OF THE WEST 204 HILLSIDE GRAVE, THE 230 HOAR-FROST 227 HOME 158 IMPERFECTION 235 IN SUMMER 216 IN WINTER 218 LAST WORD, A 249 MUSIC AND SLEEP 242 OCCULT 176 OLD SONG, AN 196 OMENS 234 ON STONY-RUN 156 ON THE FARM 219 OPIUM 241 PATHS 221 QUATRAINS 246 RAIN AND WIND 186 RED-BIRD, THE 209 ROCK, THE 163 SNOW 195 SOMNAMBULIST, THE 240 SONG IN SEASON, A 224 STANDING-STONE CREEK 165 SUNSET FANCY, A 198 THEN AND NOW 169 THRENODY, A 193 TOO LATE 238 UNDER ARCTURUS 188 WILLOW BOTTOM, THE 207 WIND AT NIGHT, THE 183 WIND OF SPRING, THE 206 WINTER MOON, THE 229 WITCH, THE 239 WOOD, THE 200 WOOD NOTES 202 WOOD WORDS 178 WEEDS BY THE WALL AFTER RAIN 308 AGE OF GOLD, THE 313 ALONG THE STREAM 275 ANTHEM OF DAWN 331 ARTIST, THE 347 AT THE LANEâS END 334 BEECH BLOOMS 294 BEFORE THE RAIN 306 BLUEBIRD, THE 363 BROKEN DROUTH, THE 286 CAN SUCH THINGS BE 345 CAVERNS 364 CHIPMUNK, THE 266 CRICKET, THE 259 DREAMER, THE 355 DROUTH 283 ENCHANTMENT 343 FEUD 288 FOREWORD 253 IMMORTELLES 320 IN THE FOREST 344 KNIGHT-ERRANT 346 LOVE OF LOVES, THE 316 LULLABY, A 321 MESSAGE OF THE LILIES, THE 329 MID-WINTER 357 MUSINGS 325 ON CHENOWETHâS RUN 300 PATH BY THE CREEK, THE 271 PESTILENCE 324 POETRY AND PHILOSOPHY 348 QUATRAINS 351 QUEST, THE 304 âQUO VADISâ 349 REINCARNATION 299 REQUIESCAT 302 RESPONSE 360 RICHES 312 ROAD HOME, THE 280 SCREECH-OWL, THE 264 SIMULACRA 362 SONG FOR LABOR, A 314 SPRING 358 SUNSET AND STORM 293 SUNSET CLOUDS 311 SWASHBUCKLER, THE 361 TREE TOAD, THE 262 THREE THINGS 318 TO A CRITIC 350 TRANSFORMATION 359 UNANOINTED 290 UNHEARD 298 VOICES 278 WILD IRIS, THE 268 WINTER 356 WORSHIP 297 A VOICE ON THE WIND A. D. NINETEEN HUNDRED 479 ADVENTURERS 457 AFTERWORD 483 ALLUREMENT 422 AUGUST 423 BUSH-SPARROW, THE 426 CONTENT 443 COMMUNICANTS 420 DEAD DAY, THE 421 DEATH OF LOVE, THE 462 DISCOVERY 447 DREAM SHAPE, A 432 DUSK 473 EARTH AND MOON 472 END OF SUMMER, THE 475 EPIPHANY 408 EVENING ON THE FARM 401 FALL 440 FOREST SPRING, THE 450 FROST 456 HILLS, THE 452 IN THE LANE 406 INVOCATION 458 JULY 398 LAND OF HEARTS MADE WHOLE, THE 372 LEAF-CRICKET, THE 384 LIFE 409 LIGHT AND WIND 469 LOVE DESPISED 465 LOVE, THE INTERPRETER 464 MAID WHO DIED OLD, A 418 MAY 438 MEETING IN THE WOODS 413 MUSIC 430 OCTOBER 445 OF THE SLUMS 468 OLD BARN, THE 434 OLD SPRING, THE 448 OWLET, THE 387 PASSING GLORY, THE 476 PEARLS 466 POET, THE 390 PROEM 367 PROTOTYPES 477 QUATRAINS 481 QUIET 429 RAIN 439 ROSE AND RUE 415 SEPTEMBER 474 SONG OF THE THRUSH, THE 454 SUMMER NOONTIDE 393 SUNSET IN AUTUMN 441 SUPERSTITION 478 TO THE LOCUST 396 TOUCHES 471 TRANSMUTATION 455 UNANSWERED 463 UNCALLED 480 UNDER THE HUNTERâS MOON 404 VOICE ON THE WIND, A 369 WIND OF SUMMER, THE 378 WIND OF WINTER, THE 382 WINDS, THE 470 WOMAN SPEAKS, THE 467 WOOD WITCH, THE 436 LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS UNDREAMED OF THINGS THAT HAPPENED LONG AGO (See page 8) _Frontispiece_ PAGE GHOSTLY AND WINDY WHITE 168 MY SPIRIT SAW HER PASS 432 PROLOGUE _There is a poetry that speaks Through common things: the grasshopper, That in the hot weeds creaks and creaks, Says all of summer to my ear: And in the cricketâs cry I hear The fireside speak, and feel the frost Work mysteries of silver near On country casements, while, deep lost In snow, the gatepost seems a sheeted ghost._ _And other things give rare delight: The guttural harps the green-frogs tune, Those minstrels of the falling night, That hail the sickle of the moon From grassy pools that glass her lune: Or,--all of August in its loud Dry cry,--the locustâs call at noon, That emphasizes heat, no cloud Of lazy white makes less with its cool shroud._ _The rain,--whose cloud dark-lids the moon, That great white eyeball of the night,-- Makes music for me; to its tune I hear the flowers unfolding white, The mushroom growing, and the slight Green sound of grass that dances near; The melon ripening with delight; And in the orchard, soft and clear, The apple redly rounding out its sphere._ _The grigs make music as of old, To which the fairies whirl and shine Within the moonlightâs prodigal gold, On woodways wild with many a vine: When all the wilderness with wine Of stars is drunk, I hear it say-- âIs God restricted to confine His wonders only to the day, That yields the abstract tangible to clay?â_ _And to my ear the wind of Morn,-- When on her rubric forehead far One star burns big,--lifts a vast horn Of wonder where all murmurs are: In which I hear the waters war, The torrent and the blue abyss, And pines,--that terrace bar on bar The mountain side,--like lovers kiss, And whisper words where all of grandeur is._ _The jutting crags,--dark, iron-veined With ore,--the peaks, where eagles scream, That pour their cataracts, rainbow-stained, Like hair, in many a mountain stream, Can lift my soul beyond the dream Of all religions; make me scan No mere external or extreme, But inward pierce the outward plan And learn that rocks have souls as well as man._ IN THE SHADOW OF THE BEECHES In the shadow of the beeches, Where the fragile wildflowers bloom; Where the pensive silence pleaches Green a roof of cool perfume, Have you felt an awe imperious As when, in a church, mysterious Windows paint with God the gloom? In the shadow of the beeches, Where the rock-ledged waters flow; Where the sunâs slant splendor bleaches Every wave to foaming snow, Have you felt a music solemn As when minster arch and column Echo organ worship low? In the shadow of the beeches, Where the light and shade are blent; Where the forest-bird beseeches, And the breeze is brimmed with scent,-- Is it joy or melancholy That oâerwhelms us partly, wholly, To our spiritâs betterment? In the shadow of the beeches Lay me where no eye perceives; Where,--like some great arm that reaches Gently as a love that grieves,-- One gnarled root may clasp me kindly While the long years, working blindly, Slowly change my dust to leaves. A FALLEN BEECH Nevermore at doorways that are barken Shall the madcap wind knock and the moonlight; Nor the circle which thou once didst darken, Shine with footsteps of the neighboring moonlight, Visitors for whom thou oft didst hearken. Nevermore, gallooned with cloudy laces, Shall the morning, like a fair freebooter, Make thy leaves his richest treasure-places; Nor the sunset, like a royal suitor, Clothe thy limbs with his imperial graces. And no more, between the savage wonder Of the sunset and the moonâs up-coming, Shall the storm, with boisterous hoof-beats, under Thy dark roof dance, Faun-like, to the humming Of the Pan-pipes of the rain and thunder. Oft the Satyr-spirit, beauty-drunken, Of the Spring called; and the music measure Of thy sap made answer; and thy sunken Veins grew vehement with youth, whose pressure Swelled thy gnarly muscles, winter-shrunken. And the germs, deep down in darkness rooted, Bubbled green from all thy million oilets, Where the spirits, rain and sunbeam suited, Of the April made their whispering toilets, Or within thy stately shadow footed. Oft the hours of blonde Summer tinkled At the windows of thy twigs, and found thee Bird-blithe; or, with shapely bodies, twinkled Lissom feet of naked flowers around thee, Where thy mats of moss lay sunbeam-sprinkled. And the Autumn with his gypsy-coated Troop of days beneath thy branches rested, Swarthy-faced and dark of eye; and throated Songs of hunting; or with red hand tested Every nut-burr that above him floated. Then the Winter, barren-browed, but rich in Shaggy followers of frost and freezing, Made the floor of thy broad boughs his kitchen, Trapper-like, to camp in; grimly easing Limbs snow-furred and moccasined with lichen. Now, alas! no more do these invest thee With the dignity of whilom gladness! They--unto whose hearts thou once confessed thee Of thy dreams--now know thee not! and sadness Sits beside thee where, forgot, dost rest thee. A COIGNE OF THE FOREST The hills hang woods around, where green, below Dark, breezy boughs of beech-trees, mats the moss, Crisp with the brittle hulls of last yearâs nuts; The water hums one bar there; and a glow Of gold lies steady where the trailers toss Red, bugled blossoms and a rock abuts; In spots the wild-phlox and oxalis grow Where beech-roots bulge the loam, and welt across The grass-grown road and roll it into ruts. And where the sumach brakes grow dusk and dense, Among the rocks, great yellow violets, Blue-bells and windflowers bloom; the agaric In dampness crowds; a fungus, thick, intense With gold and crimson and wax-white, that sets The May-apples along the terraced creek At bold defiance. Where the old rail-fence Divides the hollow, there the bee-bird whets His bill, and there the elder hedge is thick. No one can miss it; for two cat-birds nest, Calling all morning, in the trumpet-vine; And there at noon the pewee sits and floats A woodland welcome; and his very best At eve the red-bird sings, as if to sign The record of its loveliness with notes. At night the moon stoops over it to rest, And unreluctant stars, in whose faint shine There runs a whisper as of wind-swept oats. A HOUSE IN THE HILLS Old hearts that hold the saddest memories Are the most beautiful; and such make sweet Light, happy moods of younger natures which Their sadness contacts and so sanctifies. And such to me is an old gabled house, Deserted, and neglected, and unknown, Lost in the tangled hollow of its hills, Dark, cedared hills, and dreamy orchard-lands; With but its host of shrouded memories Haunting its ruined rooms and desolate halls,-- Pathetic with their fallen finery,-- And whispering through its cob-webbed crevices And roomy hearths, that sigh with ceaseless wind, Undreamed of things that happened long ago. Here in gray afternoons I love to sit, And hear the running rain along the roof; The creak and crack of noises that are born Of silence or mysterious agencies; The fitful footfalls of the wind adown Grand, winding stairways, massy banistered; A clapping door and then a sudden hush As if the old house held its breath to see,-- Invisible to me,--a presence pass, That brings a pleasant terror stiffening through The tingling veins and staring from the eyes. Then comes the rain again along the roof; And in rain-rotted room and rain-stained hall The drip and whisper of the wind and rain Seem viewless footsteps of the sometime lords And mistresses who lived here in the past. And could the state material but assume A state clairvoyant, then the dream-drugged eyes, Perhaps, might see, from room to dusty room, The ghosts of stately gentlemen glide by, And glimmering ladies, all beruffled, trail Long, haughty silks miraculously stiff. THE WIND â_Wind of the East, if thou pass by the land where my loved ones dwell, I pray, The fullest of greetings bear to them from me, their lover, and say That I am the pledge of passion still._â-- FROM THE ARABIC. The ways of the wind are eerie, And I love them all: The blithe, the mad, and the dreary, Spring, winter, and fall. When it tells to the waiting crocus Its beak to show; And hangs on the wayside locust Bloom-bunches of snow. When it comes like a balmy blessing From the musky wood, The half-grown roses caressing Till their cheeks burn blood. When it roars in the autumn season, And whines with rain, Or sleet, like a mind without reason, Or a soul in pain. When the woodways, once so spicy With bud and bloom, Are desolate, dead and icy As the icy tomb. When the puffed owl, crouched and frowsy, In the hollow tree, Sobs, dolorous, cold, and drowsy, Its shuddering melody. Then I love to sit in December Where the big hearth sings, And, dreaming, forget and remember A host of things. And the wind--I hear how it strangles, And wails and sighs On the roofâs sharp, shivering angles That front the skies. How it shouts and romps and tumbles In attics oâerhead; In the great-throated chimney rumbles, Then all at once falls dead; Then comes like the footsteps stealing Of a child on the stair, Or a bent, old gentleman feeling His slippered way with care. And my soul grows anxious-hearted For those once dear-- The long-lost loves, departed, In the wind draw near. And I seem to see their faces-- Not one estranged-- In their old accustomed places Round the wide hearth ranged. And the wind, that waits and poises Where the shadows sway, Seems their visionary voices Calling me far away. Then I wake in tears and hear it Wailing outside my door,-- Or is it some wandering spirit Weeping upon the moor? RAIN IN THE WOODS When on the leaves the rain persists, And every gust brings showers down; When copse and woodland smoke with mists, I take the old road out of town Into the hills through which it twists. I find the vale where catnip grows, Where boneset blooms, with moisture bowed; The vale through which the red creek flows, Turbid with hill-washed clay, and loud As some wild horn a huntsman blows. Around the root the beetle glides, A burnished beryl; and the ant, Large, agate-red, a garnet, slides Beneath the rock; and every plant Is roof for some frail thing that hides. Like knots against the trunks of trees The lichen-colored moths are pressed; And, wedged in hollow blooms, the bees Hang pollen-clotted; in its nest The wasp has crawled and lies at ease. The locust harsh, that sharply saws The silence of the summer noon; The katydid, that thinly draws Its fine file oâer the bars of moon; And grasshopper that drills each pause: The mantis, long-clawed, furtive, lean-- Fierce feline of the insect hordes-- And dragonfly, gauze-winged and green, Beneath the wild-grapeâs leaves and gourdâs, Have housed themselves and rest unseen. The butterfly and forest-bird Are huddled on the same gnarled bough, From which, like some rain-voweled word That dampness hoarsely utters now, The tree-toadâs guttural voice is heard. I crouch and listen: and again The woods are filled with phantom forms-- With shapes, grotesque in cloudy train, That rise and reach to me cool arms Of mist: dim, wandering wraiths of rain. I see them come; fantastic, fair; Chill, mushroom-colored: sky and earth Grow ghostly with their floating hair And trailing limbs, that have their birth In wetness--fungi of the air. O wraiths of rain! O ghosts of mist! Still fold me, hold me, and pursue! Still let my lips by yours be kissed! Still draw me with your hands of dew Unto the tryst, the dripping tryst. HEAT I Now is it as if Spring had never been, And Winter but a memory and a dream, Here where the Summer stands, her lap of green Heaped high with bloom and beam, Among her blackberry-lilies, low that lean To kiss her feet; or, freckle-browed, that stare Upon the dragonfly which, slimly seen, Like a blue jewel flickering in her hair, Sparkles above them there. II Knee-deep among the tepid pools the cows Chew a slow cud or switch a slower tail, Half-sunk in sleep beneath the beechen boughs, Where thin the wood-gnats ail. From bloom to bloom the languid butterflies drowse; The sleepy bees make hardly any sound; The only things the sun-rays can arouse, It seems, are two black beetles rolling round Upon the dusty ground. III Within its channel glares the creek and shrinks, Beneath whose rocks the furtive crawfish hides In stagnant places, where the green frog blinks, And water-strider glides. Far hotter seems it for the bird that drinks, The startled kingfisher that screams and flies; Hotter and lonelier for the purples and pinks Of weeds that bloom, whose sultry perfumes rise Stifling the swooning skies. IV From ragweed fallows, rye-fields, heaped with sheaves, From blistering rocks, no moss or lichens crust, And from the road, where every hoof-stroke heaves A cloud of burning dust, The hotness quivers, making limp the leaves, That loll like panting tongues. The pulsing heat Seems a wan wimple that the Summer weaves, A veil, in which she wraps,--as in a sheet,-- The shriveling corn and wheat. V Furious, incessant in the weeds and briers The sawing weed bugs sing: and, heat-begot, The grasshoppers, so many strident wires, Staccato stinging hot: A lash of whirling sound that never tires, The locust flails the noon, where harnessed Thirst, Beside the road-spring, many a shod hoof mires, Into the trough thrusts his hot head; immersed, Round which cool bubbles burst. VI The sad, sweet voice of some wood-spirit who Laments while watching a loved oak-tree die, From the deep forest comes the wood-doveâs coo, A long, lost, lonely cry.-- Oh, for a breeze! a mighty wind to woo The woods to stormy laughter; sow like grain The world with freshness of invisible dew, And pile above far, fevered hill and plain Cloud-bastions, black with rain. YOUNG SEPTEMBER I With a look and a laugh where the stream was flowing, September led me along the land; Where the goldenrod and lobelia, glowing, Seemed burning torches within her hand. And faint as the thistleâs or milkweedâs feather I glimpsed her form in the sparkling weather. II Now âtwas her hand and now her hair That tossed me welcome everywhere; That lured me onward through the stately rooms Of forest, hung and carpeted with glooms, And windowed wide with azure, doored with green, Through which rich glimmers of her robe were seen-- Now, like some deep marsh-mallow, rosy-gold; Now, like the great Joe-Pye-weed, fold on fold Of heavy mauve; and now, like the intense Massed ironweed, a purple opulence. III Along the bank in a wild procession Of gold and sapphire the blossoms blew; And borne on the breeze came their soft confession In syllabled musk and honey-dew; In words unheard that their lips kept saying, Sweet as the lips of children praying. IV And so, meseemed, I heard them tell How here her loving glance once fell Upon this bank, and from its azure grew The ageratum mist-flowerâs happy hue; How from her kiss, as crimson as the dawn, The cardinal-flowâr drew its vermilion; And from her hairâs blond touch thâ elecampane Evolved the glory of its golden rain; While from her starry footsteps, redolent, The aster pearled its flowery firmament. THE VINTAGER Among the fragrant grapes she bows; Long violet clusters heap her hands: And, with bright brows, on him bestows Sweet looks, like soft commands. And from her sunburnt throat, at times, As bubbles burst on new-made wine, A happy fit of merry rhymes Rings down the hills of vine. And in his heart, remorseless, sweet, Grew big the red-grape, passion, there; His heart, that, ever at her feet, Was filled with loveâs despair. But she, who neâer the honeyed must Of love had drained, a grown-up child, Saw in him--merely one to trust, And broke his heart, and smiled. BLACK VESPERâS PAGEANTS The day, all fierce with carmine, turns An Indian face towards Earth and dies; The west, like some gaunt vase, inurns Its ashes under smoldering skies; Athwart whose bowl one red cloud streams, Wild as some dream an Aztec dreams. Now shadows mass above the world, And night comes on with wind and rain; The mulberry-colored leaves are hurled Like frantic hands against the pane. And through the forests, bending low, Night stalks like some gigantic Woe. In hollows where the thistle shakes A hoar bloom like a witchâs light, From weed and flower the rain-wind rakes Dead sweetness--as a wildman might, From autumn leaves, the woods among, Dig some dead woman, fair and young. Now let me walk the woodland ways, Alone! except for thoughts, that are Akin to such wild nights and days-- A portion of the storm that far Fills Heaven and Earth tumultuously, And my own soul with ecstasy. A TWILIGHT MOTH Dusk is thy dawn; when Eve puts on her state Of gold and purple in the marbled west, Thou comest forth like some embodied trait, Or dim conceit, a lily-bud confessed; Or, of a rose, the visible wish; that, white, Goes softly messengering through the night, Whom each expectant flower makes its guest. All day the primroses have thought of thee, Their golden heads close-haremed from the heat; All day the mystic moonflowers silkenly Veiled snowy faces,--that no bee might greet Or butterfly that, weighed with pollen, passed;-- Keeping Sultana-charms for thee, at last, Their lord, who comest to salute each sweet. Cool-throated flowers that avoid the dayâs Too fervid kisses; every bud that drinks The tipsy dew and to the starlight plays Nocturnes of fragrance, thy wingâd shadow links In bonds of secret brotherhood and faith; O bearer of their orderâs shibboleth, Like some pale symbol fluttering oâer these pinks. What dost thou whisper in the balsamâs ear That sets it blushing, or the hollyhockâs,-- A syllabled silence that no man may hear,-- As dreamily upon its stem it rocks? What spell dost bear from listening plant to plant, Like some white witch, some ghostly ministrant, Some spectre of some perished flower of phlox? O voyager of that universe which lies Between the four walls of this garden fair,-- Whose constellations are the fireflies That wheel their instant courses everywhere,-- âMid fairy firmaments wherein one sees Mimic BoÃ¶tes and the Pleiades, Thou steerest like some fairy ship-of-air. Gnome-wrought of moonbeam-fluff and gossamer, Silent as scent, perhaps thou chariotest Mab or King Oberon; or, haply, her His queen, Titania, on some midnight quest.-- Oh for the herb, the magic euphrasy, That should unmask thee to mine eyes, ah me! And all that world at which my soul hath guessed! THE GRASSHOPPER I What joy you take in making hotness hotter, In emphasizing dullness with your buzz, Making monotony more monotonous! When summer comes, and drouth hath dried the water In all the creeks, we hear your ragged rasp Filing the stillness. Or,--as urchins beat A stagnant pond whereon the bubbles gasp,-- Your switch-like music whips the midday heat. O burr of sound caught in the Summerâs hair, We hear you everywhere. II We hear you in the vines and berry-brambles, Along the unkempt lanes, among the weeds, Amid the shadeless meadows, gray with seeds, And by the wood, round which the rail-fence rambles, Sawing the sunlight with your sultry saw. Or,--like to tomboy truants, at their play With noisy mirth among the barnâs deep straw,-- You sing away the careless summer-day. O brier-like voice that clings in idleness To Summerâs drowsy dress. III You tramp of insects, vagrant and unheeding, Improvident, who of the summer make One long green meal-time, and for winter take No care, aye singing or just merely feeding! Happy-go-lucky vagabond,--though frost Shall pierce, ere long, your coat of green or brown, And pinch your body,--let no song be lost, But as you lived, into your grave go down-- Like some small poet with his little rhyme, Forgotten of all time. FOREST AND FIELD I Green, watery jets of light let through The rippling foliage drenched with dew; And golden glimmers, warm and dim, That in the vistaed distance swim; Where, round the wood-springâs oozy urn, The limp, loose fronds of forest fern Trail like the tresses, green and wet, A wood-nymph binds with violet. Oâer rocks that bulge and roots that knot The emerald-amber mosses clot; From matted walls of brier and brush The elder nods its plumes of plush; And, Argus-eyed with bloom on bloom, The wild-rose breathes its wild perfume; May-apples, ripening yellow, lean With oblong fruit, a lemon-green, Near Indian-turnips, long of stem, That bear an acorn-oval gem, As if some woodland Bacchus there,-- While braiding locks of hyacinth hair With ivy-tod,--had idly tossed His thyrsus down and so had lost: And blood-root, that from scarlet wombs Puts forth, in spring, its milk-white blooms, That then like starry footsteps shine Of April under beech and pine; At which the gnarlÃ©d eyes of trees Stare, big as Faunsâ, at DryadÃ«s, That bend above a fountainâs spar, As white and naked as a star. The stagnant stream flows sleepily Thick-paved with lily-pads; the bee,-- Brown, honey-drunk, a Bassarid,-- Booms past the mottled toad, that, hid In calamus and blue-eyed grass, Beside the waterâs pooling glass, Silenus-like, eyes stolidly The MÃ¦nad-glittering dragonfly. And pennyroyal and peppermint Pour dry-hot odors without stint From fields and banks of many streams; And in their scent one almost seems To see Demeter pass, her breath Sweet with her triumph over death.-- A haze of floating saffron; sound Of shy, crisp creepings oâer the ground; The dip and stir of twig and leaf; Tempestuous gusts of spices brief Borne over bosks of sassafras By winds that foot it on the grass; Sharp, sudden songs and whisperings, That hint at untold, hidden things-- Pan and Sylvanus who of old Kept sacred each wild wood and wold. A wily light beneath the trees Quivers and dusks with every breeze-- A Hamadryad, haply, who,-- Culling her morning meal of dew From frail, accustomed cups of flowers,-- Now sees some Satyr in the bowers, Or hears his goat-hoof snapping press A brittle branch, and in distress Shrinks back; her dark, dishevelled hair Veiling her limbs one instant there. II Down precipices of the dawn The rivers of the day are drawn, The soundless torrents, free and far, Of gold that deluge every star. There is a sound of winds and wings That fills the woods with carollings; And, dashed on moss and flower and fern, And leaves, that quiver, breathe and burn, Rose-radiance smites the solitudes, The dew-drenched hills, the dripping woods That twitter as with canticles Of bird and brook; and air that smells Of flowers, and buds, and boisterous bees, Delirious honey and wet trees.-- Through briers that trip them, one by one, With swinging pails, that flash the sun, A troop of girls comes--berriers, Whose bare feet glitter where they pass Through dewdrop-trembling tufts of grass. And, oh! their laughter and their cheers Wake Echo on her shrubby rocks Who, answering, from her mountain mocks With rapid fairy horns--as if Each mossy vale and weedy cliff Had its imperial Oberon, Who, seeking his Titania, hid In coverts caverned from the sun, In kingly wrath had called and chid. Cloud-feathers, oozing orange light, Make rich the Indian locks of Night; Her dusky waist with sultry gold Girdled and buckled fold on fold. One star. A sound of bleating flocks. Great shadows stretched along the rocks, Like giant curses overthrown By some Arthurian champion. Soft-swimming sorceries of mist That streak blue glens with amethyst. And, tinkling in the clover dells, The twilight sound of cattle-bells. And where the marsh in reed and grass Burns, angry as a shattered glass, The flies blur sudden gold, and shine Like drops of amber-scattered wine Spun high by reeling Bacchanals, When Bacchus wreathes his curling hair With vine-leaves, and from every lair His worshippers around him calls. They come, they come, a happy throng, The berriers with lilt and song; Their pails brimmed black to tin-bright eaves With luscious fruit, kept cool with leaves Of aromatic sassafras; âTwixt which a berry often slips, Like laughter, from the purple mass, Wine-swollen as Silenusâ lips. III The tanned and tired Noon climbs high Up burning reaches of the sky; Below the drowsy belts of pines The rock-ledged river leaps and shines; And over rainless hill and dell Is blown the harvestâs sultry smell: While, in the fields, one sees and hears The brawny-throated harvesters,-- Their red brows beaded with the heat,-- By twos and threes among the wheat Flash their hot scythes; behind them press The binders--men and maids who sing Like some mad troop of piping Pan;-- While all the hillsides, echoing, ring Such sounds of Ariel airiness As haunted freckled Caliban. âO ho! O ho! âtis noon I say. The roses blow. Away, away, above the hay, To the song oâ the bees the roses sway; The love-lays that they hum all day, So low! so low! The rosesâ Minnesingers they.â Up velvet lawns of lilac skies The tawny moon begins to rise Behind low, blue-black hills of trees,-- As rises up, in siren seas, To rock in purple deeps, hip-hid, A virgin-bosomed Oceanid.-- Gaunt shadows crouch by tree and scaur, Duskâs shaggy Satyrs waiting for The Nymphs of moon, the Dryads white, Who take with loveliness the night, And glorify it with their love. The sweet, far notes I hear, I hear, Beyond dim pines and mellow ways; The song of some fair harvester, The lovely Limnad of the grove, Whose singing charms me while it slays. âO deep! O deep! the earth and air Are sunk in sleep. Adieu to care! Now everywhere Is rest; and by the old oak there The maiden with the nut-brown hair Doth keep, doth keep Tryst with her lover the young and fair.â IV Like Atalantaâs spheres of gold, Within the orchard, apples rolled From sudden hands of boughs that lay Their leaves, like palms, against the day; And near them pears of rusty brown Rolled bruised; and peaches, pink with down, And furry as the ears of Pan; Or, like Dianaâs cheeks, a tan Beneath which burnt a tender fire; Or wan as Psycheâs with desire. And down the orchard vistas,--young, A hickory basket by him swung, A hat of straw against the sun Drawn shadowy oâer his face,--he strode; As if he looked to find some one, His eyes searched every bend of road. Before him, like a living burr, Rattled the noisy grasshopper. And where the cowsâ melodious bells Trailed music up and down the dells, Beside the spring, that oâer the ground Went whimpering like a fretful hound, He saw her waiting, fair and slim, Her pail forgotten there, for him. Yellow as sunset skies and pale As fairy clouds that stay or sail Through azure vaults of summer, blue As summer heavens, the wildflowers grew; And blossoms on which spurts of light Fell laughing--like the lips one might Feign once were Hebeâs, or a girlâs That laughter lights with rows of pearls. Long ferns, in murmuring masses heaped; And mosses moist, in beryl steeped And musk aromas of the wood And silence of the solitude: And everything that near her blew The spring had showered thick with dew.-- Across the rambling fence she leaned, Her fresh, round arms all white and bare; Her artless beauty, bonnet-screened, Simplicity from feet to hair. A wood-thrush gurgled in a vine-- Ah! âtis his step, âtis he she hears; The wild-rose smelt like some rare wine-- He comes, ah, yes! âtis he who nears. And her brown eyes and happy face Said welcome. And with rustic grace He leant beside her; and they had Some talk with youthful laughter glad: I know not what: I know but this-- Its final period was a kiss. SUMMER I Hang out your loveliest star, O Night! O Night! Your richest rose, O Dawn! To greet sweet Summer, her, who, clothed in light, Leads Earthâs best hours on. Hark! how the wild birds of the woods Throat it within the dewy solitudes! The brook sings low and soft, The trees make song, As, from her heaven aloft, Comes blue-eyed Summer like a girl along. II And as the Day, her lover, leads her in, How bright his beauty glows! How red his lips, that ever try to win Her mouthâs delicious rose! And from the beating of his heart Warm winds arise and sighing thence depart: And from his eyes and hair The light and dew Fall round her everywhere, And heaven above her is an arch of blue. III Come to the forest, or the treeless meadows Deep with their hay or grain; Come where the hills lift high their thrones of shadows, And tawny orchards reign. Come where the reapers whet the scythe; Where golden sheaves are heaped; where berriers blithe, With willow-basket and with pail, Swarm knoll and plain; Where flowers freckle every vale, And Beauty goes with hands of berry-stain. IV Come where the dragonflies, a brassy blue, Flit round the wildwood streams, And, sucking at some horn of honey-dew, The wild-bee hums and dreams. Come where the butterfly waves wings of sleep, Gold-disked and mottled, over blossoms deep: Come where beneath the rustic bridge The creek-frog cries; Or in the shade the rainbowed midge, Above the emerald pools, with murmurings flies. V Come where the cattle browse within the brake, As red as oak and strong; Where cattle-bells the echoes faintly wake, And milkmaids sing their song. Come where the vine-trailed rocks, with waters hoary, Tell to the sun some legend old or story; Or where the sunset to the land Speaks words of gold; Where Ripeness walks, a wheaten band About her brow, making the buds unfold. VI Come where the woods lift up their stalwart arms Unto the star-sown skies; Knotted and gnarled, that to the winds and storms Fling mighty rhapsodies: Or to the moon repeat what they have seen, When Night upon their shoulders vast doth lean. Come where the dewâs clear syllable Slips from the rose; And where the fireflies fill The dark with golden music of their glows. VII Now while the dingles and the vine-roofed glens Whisper their flowery tale Unto the silence; and the lakes and fens Unto the moonlight pale Murmur their rapture, let us seek her out, Her of the honey throat and peach-sweet pout, Summer! and at her feet, The love of old Lay like a sheaf of wheat, And of our hearts the purest gold of gold. INDIAN SUMMER The dawn is a warp of fever, The eve is a woof of fire; And the month is a singing weaver Weaving a red desire. With stars Dawn dices with Even For the rosy gold they heap On the blue of the dayâs broad heaven, On the black of the nightâs wide deep. Itâs--âReins to the blood!â and âMarry!â The Seasonâs a prince who burns With the teasing lusts that harry His heart for a wench who spurns. Itâs--âCrown us a beaker with sherry, To drink to the doxyâs heels; A tankard of wine oâ the berry, To lips like a cloven peelâs. ââS death! if a king be saddened, Right so let a fool laugh lies: But wine! when a king is gladdened, And a womanâs waist and her eyes.â He hath shattered the loom of the weaver, And left but a leaf that flits, He hath seized heavenâs gold, and a fever Of mist and of frost is its. He hath tippled the buxom beauty, And gotten her hug and her kiss-- The wide worldâs royal booty To pile at her feet for this. TO SORROW I O dark-eyed spirit of the marble brow, Whose look is silence and whose touch is night, Who walkest lonely through the world, O thou, Who sittest lonely with Lifeâs blown-out light; Who in the hollow hours of nightâs noon Criest like some lost child; Whose anguish-fevered eyeballs seek the moon To cool their pulses wild. Thou who dost bend to kiss Joyâs sister cheek, Turning its rose to alabaster; yea, Thou who art terrible and mad and meek, Why in my heart art thou enshrined to-day? Sorrow, O say! O say! II Now Spring is here and all the world is white, I will go forth, and where the forest robes Itself in green, and every hill and height Crowns its fair head with blossoms,--spirit globes Of hyacinth and crocus dashed with dew,-- I will forget my grief, And thee, O Sorrow, gazing at the blue, Beneath a last yearâs leaf, Of some brief violet the south-wind woos, Or bluet, whence the west-wind raked the snow; The baby eyes of love, the darling hues Of happiness, that thou canst never know, Mother of pain and woe. III On some hoar upland, hoar with clustered thorns, Hard by a riverâs windy white of waves, I shall sit down with Spring,--whose eyes are morns Of light; whose cheeks the rose of health enslaves,-- And so forget thee, braiding in Springâs hair The snowdrop, tipped with green, The cool-eyed primrose and the trillium fair, And moony celandine. Contented so to lie within her arms, Forgetting all the sere and sad and wan, Remembering Love alone, who, oâer earthâs storms, High on the mountains of perpetual dawn, Leads the glad Hours on. IV Or in the peace that follows storm, when Even, Within the west, stands dreaming, lone and far, Clad on with green and silver, and the Heaven Is brightly brooched with one gold-glittering star, I will lie down beside a mountain lake, Round which the tall pines sigh, And, breathing musk of rain from boughs that shake Storm balsam, blowing by, Make friends of Dream and Contemplation high, And Music, listening to the mocking-bird,-- Who through the hush sends its melodious cry,-- And so forget a while that other word, That all loved things must die. NIGHT Out of the East, as from an unknown shore, Thou comest with thy children in thine arms,-- Slumber and Dream,--whom mortals so adore,-- Their flowing raiment sculptured to their charms: Soft on thy breast thy lovely children rest, Laid like two roses in one balmy nest. Silent thou comest, swiftly too and slow. There is no other presence like to thine, When thou approachest with thy babes divine, Thy shadowy face above them bending low, Blowing the ringlets from their brows of snow. Oft have I taken Sleep from thy dark arms, And fondled her fair head, with poppies wreathed, Within my bosomâs depths, until its storms With her were hushed and I but faintly breathed: And then her sister, Dream, with frolic art Arose from rest, and in my sleeping heart Blew bubbles of dreams where elfin worlds were lost; Worlds where my stranger soul looked down at me, Or walked with spirits by a rainbowed sea, Or smiled, an unfamiliar shape of frost, Floating on gales of breathless melody. Day comes to us in garish glory garbed; But thou, thou bringest to the tired heart Rest and sweet silence, wherein are absorbed All the vain tumults of the mind and mart. Whether thou comest with hands full of stars, Or clothed in storm and cloud, the lightning bars, Rolling the thunder like a mighty dress, God moves with thee; we seem to hear His feet, Wind-like, along the floors of Heaven beat; To see His face, revealed in awfulness, Through thee, O Night, to ban us or to bless. THE HAUNTED HOUSE I The shadows sit and stand about its door Like uninvited guests and poor; And all the long, hot summer day The ceaseless locust dins its roundelay In one old sycamore. The squirrel leaves upon its rotting roof Its wandering tracks In empty hulls; and in its clapboard cracks The spider weaves a windy woof, And cells of clay the mud-wasp packs. The she-fox whelps upon its floor; And oâer its sun warped door The owlet roosts; and where the mosses run, The freckled snake basks in the sun. II The children of what fathers sleep Beneath those melancholy pines? The slow slugs slime their headstones there where creep The doddered poison-vines. The orchard, near the meadow deep, Lifts up decrepit arms, Black-lichened in a withering heap. No sap swells up to make it leap And shout against springâs storms; No blossom lulls its age asleep; The winds bring sad alarms. Big, bell-round pears and pippins, russet-red, No maiden gathers now; The worm-bored trunks weep tears of gum instead, Oozing from each old bough. III The woodlands around it are solitary And fold it like gaunt hands; The sunlight is sad and the moonlight is dreary, The hum of the country is lonesome and weary, And the bees go by in bands To gladder and lovelier lands. The grasses are rotting in walk and in bower; The loneliness,--dank and rank As a chamber where lies for a lonely hour An old-manâs corpse with many a flower,-- Is hushed and blank. And even the birds have passed it by, Gone with their songs to a happier sky, A happier sky and bank. IV In its desolate halls are lying, Gold, blood-red, and browned, Drifted leaves of autumn dying; And the winds, above them sighing, Turn them round and round, Make a ghostly sound As of footsteps falling, flying, Ghostly footsteps, faintly flying Through the haunted house. V Gazing down in her white shroud, Wovân of windy cloud, Comes at night the phantom moon; Comes, and all the shadows soon, Crowding chambers of the house, Haunting whispering rooms, arouse;-- Shadows, ghosts, her rays lead on, Till beneath the cloud Like a ghost sheâs gone, In her gusty shroud, Oâer the haunted house. AUTUMN I oft have met her slowly wandering Beside a leafy stream, her locks blown wild, Her cheeks a hectic flush, more fair than Spring, As if on her the scarlet copse had smiled: Or I have seen her sitting, dark and tall,-- Her gentle eyes with foolish weeping dim,-- Beneath a twisted oak from whose red leaves She wound great drowsy wreaths and let them fall; The west-wind in her hair, that made it swim Far out behind, brown as the rustling sheaves. Or in the hill-lands I have often seen The marvel of her passage; glimpses faint Of glimmering woods that glanced the hills between, Like Indian faces, fierce with forest paint. Or I have met her âtwixt two beechen hills, Within a dingled valley near a fall, Held in her nut-brown hand one cardinal flower; Or wading dimly where the leaf-dammed rills Went babbling through the wildwoodâs arrased hall, Where burned the beech and maples glared their power. Or I have met her by a ruined mill, Where trailed the crimson creeper, serpentine, On fallen leaves that stirred and rustled, chill, And watched her swinging in the wildgrapevine. While Beauty, sad among the vales and mountains, More sad than death, or all that death can teach, Dreamed of decay and stretched appealing arms, Where splashed the murmur of the forestâs fountains: With all her loveliness did she beseech, And all the sorrow of her wildwood charms. Once only in a hollow, girt with trees, A-dream amid wild asters filled with rain, I glimpsed her cheeks, red-berried by the breeze, In her dark eyes the nightâs sidereal stain. And once upon an orchardâs tangled path, Where all the goldenrod had turned to brown, Where russets rolled and leaves lay sweet of breath, I did behold her âmid her aftermath Of blossoms standing, in her gypsy gown, Within her gaze the dreams of life and death. ALONG THE OHIO Athwart a sky of brass long welts of gold; A river of flame the wide Ohio lies; Beneath the sunset, billowing manifold, The dark-blue hill-tops rise. And, westering, dips the crescent of the moon Through great cloud-feathers, flushed with rosy ray, That close around the crystal of her lune The redbird wings of Day. A little skiff slips oâer the burnished stream; A wake of flame, that broadens far behind, Follows in ripples; and the paddles gleam Against the evening wind. Was it the boat, the solitude, and hush, That with dead Indians peopled all the glooms? That made each bank, meseemed, and every bush, Start into eagle-plumes? That made me seem to hear the breaking brush, And, as the stagâs great antlers swelled in view, To hear the arrow twang from cane and rush, That dipped to the canoe? To see the glimmering wigwams by the waves? And, wildly clad, around the camp-firesâ glow, The Shawnee chieftains with their painted braves, Each with his battle-bow?... But now the vision like the sunset fades, The clouds of ribbÃ©d gold have oozed their light; And from the west, like sombre sachem shades, Gallop the shades of night. The broad Ohio glitters to the stars; And many murmurs wander through its woods-- Is it the mourning of dead warriors For their lost solitudes? The moon is set; but, like another moon, The crescent of the river shimmers there, Unchanged as when the eyes of Daniel Boone Beheld it flowing fair. THE OLD INN Red-winding from the sleepy town, One takes the lone, forgotten lane Straight through the hills. A brush-bird brown Bubbles in thorn-flowers sweet with rain, Where breezes bend the gleaming grain And cautious drip of higher leaves The lower dips that drip again, Above the tangled trees it heaves Its gables and its haunted eaves. One creeper, gnarled and blossomless, Oâerforests all its eastern wall; The sighing cedars rake and press Dark boughs along the panes they sprawl; While, where the sun beats, drone and drawl The mud-wasps; and one bushy bee, Gold-dusty, hurls along the hall To crowd into a crack.--To me The shadows seem too scared to flee. Of ragged chimneys martins make Huge pipes of music; twittering, here They build and brood.--My footfalls wake Strange stealing echoes, till I fear Iâll see my pale self drawing near, My phantom self as in a glass; Or one, men murdered, buried--where?-- Dim in gray, stealthy glimmer, pass With lips that seem to moan âAlas!â THE MILL-WATER The water-flag and wild cane grow Round banks whereon the sunbeams sow Ephemeral gold when, on its shores, The wind sighs through the sycamores. In one green angle, just in reach, Between a willow-tree and beech, Moss-grown and leaky lies a boat The thick-grown lilies keep afloat. And through its waters, half-awake, Slow swims the spotted water-snake; And near its edge, like some gray streak, Stands gaunt the still fly-up-the-creek. Between the lily-pads and blooms The water-spirits set their looms, And weave the lace-like light that dims The glimmering leaves of under limbs. Each lily is the hiding-place Of some dim wood-thingâs elvish face, That watches you with gold-green eyes Where bubbles of its breathing rise. I fancy, when the waxing moon Leans through the trees and dreams of June; And when the black bat slants its wing, And lonelier the green-frogs sing;
{'title': 'The Poems of Madison Cawein, Volume 3 (of 5) by Madison Julius Cawein', 'source': 'Project Gutenberg', 'lang': 'en'}