Poems by Madison Julius Cawein Part 13

Bright on the oldtime flower place The lamp streams through the foggy pane; The door is opened to the rain: And in the door--her happy face And outstretched arms again.

THE PICTURE

Above her, pearl and rose the heavens lay: Around her, flowers flattered earth with gold, Or down the path in insolence held sway-- Like cavaliers who ride the king's highway-- Scarlet and buff, within a garden old.

Beyond the hills, faint-heard through belts of wood, Bells, Sabbath-sweet, swooned from some far-off town: Gamboge and gold, broad sunset colors strewed The purple west as if, with G.o.d imbued, Her mighty palette Nature there laid down.

Amid such flowers, underneath such skies, Embodying all life knows of sweet and fair, She stood; love's dreams in girlhood's face and eyes, Fair as a star that comes to emphasize The mingled beauty of the earth and air.

Behind her, seen through vines and orchard trees, Gray with its twinkling windows--like the face Of calm old age that sits and dreams at ease-- Porched with old roses, haunts of honeybees, The homestead loomed within a lilied s.p.a.ce.

For whom she waited in the afterglow, Star-eyed and golden 'mid the poppy and rose, I do not know; I do not care to know,-- It is enough I keep her picture so, Hung up, like poetry, in my life's dull prose.

A fragrant picture, where I still may find Her face untouched of sorrow or regret, Unspoiled of contact; ever young and kind; The spiritual sweetheart of my soul and mind, She had not been, perhaps, if we had met.

MOLY

When by the wall the tiger-flower swings A head of sultry slumber and aroma; And by the path, whereon the blown rose flings Its obsolete beauty, the long lilies foam a White place of perfume, like a beautiful breast-- Between the pansy fire of the west, And poppy mist of moonrise in the east, This heartache will have ceased.

The witchcraft of soft music and sweet sleep-- Let it beguile the burthen from my spirit, And white dreams reap me as strong reapers reap The ripened grain and full blown blossom near it; Let me behold how gladness gives the whole The transformed countenance of my own soul-- Between the sunset and the risen moon Let sorrow vanish soon.

And these things then shall keep me company: The elfins of the dew; the spirit of laughter Who haunts the wind; the G.o.d of melody Who sings within the stream, that reaches after

The flow'rs that rock themselves to his caress: These of themselves shall shape my happiness, Whose visible presence I shall lean upon, Feeling that care is gone.

Forgetting how the cankered flower must die; The worm-pierced fruit fall, sicklied to its syrup; How joy, begotten 'twixt a sigh and sigh, Waits with one foot forever in the stirrup,-- Remembering how within the hollow lute Soft music sleeps when music's voice is mute; And in the heart, when all seems black despair, Hope sits, awaiting there.

POPPY AND MANDRAGORA

Let us go far from here!

Here there is sadness in the early year: Here sorrow waits where joy went laughing late: The sicklied face of heaven hangs like hate Above the woodland and the meadowland; And Spring hath taken fire in her hand Of frost and made a dead bloom of her face, Which was a flower of marvel once and grace, And sweet serenity and stainless glow.

Delay not. Let us go.

Let us go far away Into the sunrise of a fairer May: Where all the nights resign them to the moon, And drug their souls with odor and soft tune, And tell their dreams in starlight: where the hours Teach immortality with fadeless flowers; And all the day the bee weights down the bloom, And all the night the moth shakes strange perfume, Like music, from the flower-bells' affluence.

Let us go far from hence.

Why should we sit and weep, And yearn with heavy eyelids still to sleep?

Forever hiding from our hearts the hate,-- Death within death,--life doth acc.u.mulate, Like winter snows along the barren leas And sterile hills, whereon no lover sees The crocus limn the beautiful in flame; Or hyacinth and jonquil write the name Of Love in fire, for each pa.s.ser-by.

Why should we sit and sigh?

We will not stay and long, Here where our souls are wasting for a song; Where no bird sings; and, dim beneath the stars, No silvery water strikes melodious bars; And in the rocks and forest-covered hills No quick-tongued echo from her grotto fills With eery syllables the solitude-- The vocal image of the voice that wooed-- She, of wild sounds the airy looking-gla.s.s.

Our souls are tired, alas!

What should we say to her?-- To Spring, who in our hearts makes no sweet stir: Who looks not on us nor gives thought unto: Too busy with the birth of flowers and dew, And vague gold wings within the chrysalis; Or Love, who will not miss us; had no kiss To give your soul or the sad soul of me, Who bound our hearts to her in poesy, Long since, and wear her badge of service still.-- Have we not served our fill?

We will go far away.

Song will not care, who slays our souls each day With the dark daggers of denying eyes, And lips of silence! ... Had she sighed us lies, Not pa.s.sionate, yet falsely tremulous, And lent her mouth to ours in mockery; thus Smiled from calm eyes as if appreciative; Then, then our love had taught itself to live Feeding itself on hope, and recompense.

But no!--So let us hence.

So be the Bible shut Of all her Beauty, and her wisdom but A clasp for memory! We will not seek The light that came not when the soul was weak With longing, and the darkness gave no sign Of star-born comfort. Nay! why kneel and whine Sad psalms of patience and hosannas of Old hope and dreary canticles of love?-- Let us depart, since, as we long supposed, For us G.o.d's book was closed.

A ROAD SONG

It's--Oh, for the hills, where the wind's some one With a vagabond foot that follows!

And a cheer-up hand that he claps upon Your arm with the hearty words, "Come on!

We'll soon be out of the hollows, My heart!

We'll soon be out of the hollows."

It's--Oh, for the songs, where the hope's some one With a renegade foot that doubles!

And a jolly lilt that he flings to the sun As he turns with the friendly laugh, "Come on!

We'll soon be out of the troubles, My heart!

We'll soon be out of the troubles!"

PHANTOMS

This was her home; one mossy gable thrust Above the cedars and the locust trees: This was her home, whose beauty now is dust, A lonely memory for melodies The wild birds sing, the wild birds and the bees.

Here every evening is a prayer: no boast Or ruin of sunset makes the wan world wroth; Here, through the twilight, like a pale flower's ghost, A drowsy flutter, flies the tiger-moth; And dusk spreads darkness like a dewy cloth.

In vagabond velvet, on the placid day, A stain of crimson, lolls the b.u.t.terfly; The south wind sows with ripple and with ray The pleasant waters; and the gentle sky Looks on the homestead like a quiet eye.

Their melancholy quaver, lone and low, When day is done, the gray tree-toads repeat: The whippoorwills, far in the afterglow, Complain to silence: and the lightnings beat, In one still cloud, glimmers of golden heat.

He comes not yet: not till the dusk is dead, And all the western glow is far withdrawn; Not till,--a sleepy mouth love's kiss makes red,-- The baby bud opes in a rosy yawn, Breathing sweet guesses at the dreamed-of dawn.

When in the shadows, like a rain of gold, The fireflies stream steadily; and bright Along the moss the glowworm, as of old, A crawling sparkle--like a crooked light In smoldering vellum--scrawls a square of night,--

Then will he come; and she will lean to him,-- She,--the sweet phantom,--memory of that place,-- Between the starlight and his eyes; so dim With suave control and soul-compelling grace, He cannot help but speak her, face to face.

INTIMATIONS OF THE BEAUTIFUL

I

The hills are full of prophecies And ancient voices of the dead; Of hidden shapes that no man sees, Pale, visionary presences, That speak the things no tongue hath said, No mind hath thought, no eye hath read.

The streams are full of oracles, And momentary whisperings; An immaterial beauty swells Its breezy silver o'er the sh.e.l.ls With wordless speech that sings and sings The message of diviner things.