Poems by Madison Julius Cawein Part 17

III

Dead! dead! all dead beside the drouth-burnt brook, Shrouded in moss or in the shriveled gra.s.s.

Where waved their bells, from which the wild-bee shook The dewdrop once,--gaunt, in a nightmare ma.s.s, The rank weeds crowd; through which the cattle pa.s.s, Thirsty and lean, seeking some meager spring, Closed in with thorns, on which stray bits of wool The panting sheep have left, that sought the cool, From morn till evening wearily wandering.

IV

No bird is heard; no throat to whistle awake The sleepy hush; to let its music leak Fresh, bubble-like, through bloom-roofs of the brake: Only the green-gray heron, famine-weak,-- Searching the stale pools of the minnowless creek,-- Utters its call; and then the rain-crow, too, False prophet now, croaks to the stagnant air; While overhead,--still as if painted there,-- A buzzard hangs, black on the burning blue.

RAIN

Around, the stillness deepened; then the grain Went wild with wind; and every briery lane Was swept with dust; and then, tempestuous black, Hillward the tempest heaved a monster back, That on the thunder leaned as on a cane; And on huge shoulders bore a cloudy pack, That gullied gold from many a lightning-crack: One big drop splashed and wrinkled down the pane, And then field, hill, and wood were lost in rain.

At last, through clouds,--as from a cavern hewn.

Into night's heart,--the sun burst angry roon; And every cedar, with its weight of wet, Against the sunset's fiery splendor set, Frightened to beauty, seemed with rubies strewn: Then in drenched gardens, like sweet phantoms met, Dim odors rose of pink and mignonette; And in the east a confidence, that soon Grew to the calm a.s.surance of the moon.

AT SUNSET

Into the sunset's turquoise marge The moon dips, like a pearly barge Enchantment sails through magic seas To faeryland Hesperides, Over the hills and away.

Into the fields, in ghost-gray gown, The young-eyed Dusk comes slowly down; Her ap.r.o.n filled with stars she stands, And one or two slip from her hands Over the hills and away.

Above the wood's black caldron bends The witch-faced Night and, muttering, blends The dew and heat, whose bubbles make The mist and musk that haunt the brake Over the hills and away.

Oh, come with me, and let us go Beyond the sunset lying low; Beyond the twilight and the night, Into Love's kingdom of long light, Over the hills and away.

THE LEAF-CRICKET

I

Small twilight singer Of dew and mist: thou ghost-gray, gossamer winger Of dusk's dim glimmer, How chill thy note sounds; how thy wings of shimmer Vibrate, soft-sighing, Meseems, for Summer that is dead or dying.

I stand and listen, And at thy song the garden-beds, that glisten With rose and lily, Seem touched with sadness; and the tuberose chilly, Breathing around its cold and colorless breath, Fills the pale evening with wan hints of death.

II

I see thee quaintly Beneath the leaf; thy sh.e.l.l-shaped winglets faintly-- (As thin as spangle Of cobwebbed rain)--held up at airy angle; I hear thy tinkle With faery notes the silvery stillness sprinkle;

Investing wholly The moonlight with divinest melancholy: Until, in seeming, I see the Spirit of Summer sadly dreaming Amid her ripened orchards, russet-strewn, Her great, grave eyes fixed on the harvest-moon.

III

As dewdrops beady; As mist minute, thy notes ring low and reedy: The vaguest vapor Of melody, now near; now, like some taper Of sound, far-fading-- Thou will-o'-wisp of music aye evading.

Among the bowers, The fog-washed stalks of Autumn's weeds and flowers, By hill and hollow, I hear thy murmur and in vain I follow-- Thou jack-o'-lantern voice, thou pixy cry, Thou dirge, that tellest Beauty she must die.

IV

And when the frantic Wild winds of Autumn with the dead leaves antic; And walnuts scatter The mire of lanes; and dropping acorns patter In grove and forest, Like some frail grief with the rude blast thou warrest, Sending thy slender Far cry against the gale, that, rough, untender, Untouched of sorrow, Sweeps thee aside, where, haply, I to-morrow Shall find thee lying--tiny, cold and crushed, Thy weak wings folded and thy music hushed.

THE WIND OF WINTER

The Winter Wind, the wind of death, Who knocked upon my door, Now through the keyhole entereth, Invisible and h.o.a.r: He breathes around his icy breath And treads the flickering floor.

I heard him, wandering in the night, Tap at my windowpane; With ghostly fingers, snowy white, I heard him tug in vain, Until the shuddering candlelight Did cringe with fear and strain.

The fire, awakened by his voice, Leapt up with frantic arms, Like some wild babe that greets with noise Its father home who storms, With rosy gestures that rejoice, And crimson kiss that warms.

Now in the hearth he sits and, drowned Among the ashes, blows; Or through the room goes stealing round On cautious-creeping toes, Deep-mantled in the drowsy sound Of night that sleets and snows.

And oft, like some thin faery-thing, The stormy hush amid, I hear his captive trebles sing Beneath the kettle's lid; Or now a harp of elfland string In some dark cranny hid.

Again I hear him, implike, whine, Cramped in the gusty flue; Or knotted in the resinous pine Raise goblin cry and hue, While through the smoke his eyeb.a.l.l.s shine, A sooty red and blue.

At last I hear him, nearing dawn, Take up his roaring broom, And sweep wild leaves from wood and lawn, And from the heavens the gloom, To show the gaunt world lying wan, And morn's cold rose a-bloom.

THE OWLET

I

When dusk is drowned in drowsy dreams, And slow the hues of sunset die; When firefly and moth go by, And in still streams the new moon seems Another moon and sky: Then from the hills there comes a cry, The owlet's cry: A shivering voice that sobs and screams, With terror screams:--

"Who is it, who is it, who-o-o?

Who rides through the dusk and dew, With a pair of horns, As thin as thorns, And face a bubble-blue?-- Who, who, who!

Who is it, who is it, who-o-o?"

II

When night has dulled the lily's white, And opened wide the moonflower's eyes; When pale mists rise and veil the skies, And round the height in whispering flight The night-wind sounds and sighs: Then in the wood again it cries, The owlet cries: A shivering voice that calls in fright, In maundering fright:--

"Who is it, who is it, who-o-o?

Who walks with a shuffling shoe 'Mid the gusty trees, With a face none sees, And a form as ghostly, too?-- Who, who, who!

Who is it, who is it, who-o-o?"

III

When midnight leans a listening ear And tinkles on her insect lutes; When 'mid the roots the cricket flutes, And marsh and mere, now far, now near, A jack-o'-lantern foots: Then o'er the pool again it hoots, The owlet hoots: A voice that shivers as with fear, That cries with fear:--

"Who is it, who is it, who-o-o?

Who creeps with his glowworm crew Above the mire With a corpse-light fire, As only dead men do?-- Who, who, who!

Who is it, who is it, who-o-o?"