Poems by Madison Julius Cawein Part 11

Three miles of trees it is: and I Came through the woods that waited, dumb, For the cool summer dusk to come; And lingered there to watch the sky Up which the gradual splendor clomb.

A tree-toad quavered in a tree; And then a sudden whippoorwill Called overhead, so wildly shrill The sleeping wood, it seemed to me, Cried out and then again was still.

Then through dark boughs its stealthy flight An owl took; and, at drowsy strife, The cricket tuned its faery fife; And like a ghost-flower, silent white, The wood-moth glimmered into life.

And in the dead wood everywhere The insects ticked, or bored below The rotted bark; and, glow on glow, The lambent fireflies here and there Lit up their jack-o'-lantern show.

I heard a vesper-sparrow sing, Withdrawn, it seemed, into the far Slow sunset's tranquil cinnabar; The crimson, softly smoldering Behind the trees, with its one star.

A dog barked: and down ways that gleamed, Through dew and clover, faint the noise Of cowbells moved. And then a voice, That sang a-milking, so it seemed, Made glad my heart as some glad boy's.

And then the lane: and, full in view, A farmhouse with its rose-grown gate, And honeysuckle paths, await For night, the moon, and love and you-- These are the things that made me late.

PATHS

I

What words of mine can tell the spell Of garden ways I know so well?-- The path that takes me in the spring Past quince-trees where the bluebirds sing, And peonies are blossoming, Unto a porch, wistaria-hung, Around whose steps May-lilies blow, A fair girl reaches down among, Her arm more white than their sweet snow.

II

What words of mine can tell the spell Of garden ways I know so well?-- Another path that leads me, when The summer time is here again, Past hollyhocks that shame the west When the red sun has sunk to rest; To roses bowering a nest, A lattice, 'neath which mignonette And deep geraniums surge and sough, Where, in the twilight, starless yet, A fair girl's eyes are stars enough.

III

What words of mine can tell the spell Of garden ways I know so well?-- A path that takes me, when the days Of autumn wrap the hills in haze, Beneath the pippin-pelting tree, 'Mid flitting b.u.t.terfly and bee; Unto a door where, fiery, The creeper climbs; and, garnet-hued, The c.o.c.k's-comb and the dahlia flare, And in the door, where shades intrude, Gleams bright a fair girl's sunbeam hair.

IV

What words of mine can tell the spell Of garden ways I know so well?-- A path that brings me through the frost Of winter, when the moon is tossed In clouds; beneath great cedars, weak With s.h.a.ggy snow; past shrubs blown bleak With shivering leaves; to eaves that leak The tattered ice, whereunder is A fire-flickering window-s.p.a.ce; And in the light, with lips to kiss, A fair girl's welcome-smiling face.

THE QUEST

I

First I asked the honeybee, Busy in the balmy bowers; Saying, "Sweetheart, tell it me: Have you seen her, honeybee?

She is cousin to the flowers-- All the sweetness of the south In her wild-rose face and mouth."

But the bee pa.s.sed silently.

II

Then I asked the forest bird, Warbling by the woodland waters; Saying, "Dearest, have you heard?

Have you heard her, forest bird?

She is one of music's daughters-- Never song so sweet by half As the music of her laugh."

But the bird said not a word.

III

Next I asked the evening sky, Hanging out its lamps of fire; Saying, "Loved one, pa.s.sed she by?

Tell me, tell me, evening sky!

She, the star of my desire-- Sister whom the Pleiads lost, And my soul's high pentecost."

But the sky made no reply.

IV

Where is she? ah, where is she?

She to whom both love and duty Bind me, yea, immortally.-- Where is she? ah, where is she?

Symbol of the Earth-Soul's beauty.

I have lost her. Help my heart Find her! her, who is a part Of the pagan soul of me.

THE GARDEN OF DREAMS

Not while I live may I forget That garden which my spirit trod!

Where dreams were flowers, wild and wet, And beautiful as G.o.d.

Not while I breathe, awake, adream, Shall live again for me those hours, When, in its mystery and gleam, I met her 'mid the flowers.

Eyes, talismanic heliotrope, Beneath mesmeric lashes, where The sorceries of love and hope Had made a shining lair.

And daydawn brows, whereover hung The twilight of dark locks: wild birds, Her lips, that spoke the rose's tongue Of fragrance-voweled words.

I will not tell of cheeks and chin, That held me as sweet language holds; Nor of the eloquence within Her b.r.e.a.s.t.s' twin-mooned molds.

Nor of her body's languorous Wind-grace, that glanced like starlight through Her clinging robe's diaphanous Web of the mist and dew.

There is no star so pure and high As was her look; no fragrance such As her soft presence; and no sigh Of music like her touch.

Not while I live may I forget That garden of dim dreams, where I And Beauty born of Music met, Whose spirit pa.s.sed me by.

THE PATH TO FAERY

I

When dusk falls cool as a rained-on rose, And a tawny tower the twilight shows, With the crescent moon, the silver moon, the curved new moon in a s.p.a.ce that glows, A turret window that grows alight; There is a path that my Fancy knows, A glimmering, shimmering path of night, That far as the Land of Faery goes.

II

And I follow the path, as Fancy leads, Over the mountains, into the meads, Where the firefly cities, the glowworm cities, the faery cities are strung like beads, Each city a twinkling star: And I live a life of valorous deeds, And march with the Faery King to war, And ride with his knights on milk-white steeds.

III