Poems by Madison Julius Cawein Part 2

When you and I in the hills went Maying.

II

There where the brook on its rocks went winking, There by its banks where the May had led us, Flowers, that bloomed in the woods and meadows, Azure and gold at our feet, kept thinking All that my soul was thinking there, "I love you! love you!" softly there-- And did you care?

There where the brook on its rocks went winking.

III

Whatever befalls through fate's compelling, Should our paths unite or our pathways sever, In the Mays to come I shall feel forever The wildflowers thinking, the wild birds telling, In words as soft as the falling dew, The love that I keep here still for you, Both deep and true, Whatever befalls through fate's compelling.

AUBADE

Awake! the dawn is on the hills!

Behold, at her cool throat a rose, Blue-eyed and beautiful she goes, Leaving her steps in daffodils.-- Awake! arise! and let me see Thine eyes, whose deeps epitomize All dawns that were or are to be, O love, all Heaven in thine eyes!-- Awake! arise! come down to me!

Behold! the dawn is up: behold!

How all the birds around her float, Wild rills of music, note on note, Spilling the air with mellow gold.-- Arise! awake! and, drawing near, Let me but hear thee and rejoice!

Thou, who keep'st captive, sweet and clear, All song, O love, within thy voice!

Arise! awake! and let me hear!

See, where she comes, with limbs of day, The dawn! with wild-rose hands and feet, Within whose veins the sunbeams beat, And laughters meet of wind and ray.

Arise! come down! and, heart to heart, Love, let me clasp in thee all these-- The sunbeam, of which thou art part, And all the rapture of the breeze!-- Arise! come down! loved that thou art!

APOCALYPSE

Before I found her I had found Within my heart, as in a brook, Reflections of her: now a sound Of imaged beauty; now a look.

So when I found her, gazing in Those Bibles of her eyes, above All earth, I read no word of sin; Their holy chapters all were love.

I read them through. I read and saw The soul impatient of the sod-- Her soul, that through her eyes did draw Mine--to the higher love of G.o.d.

PENETRALIA

I am a part of all you see In Nature; part of all you feel: I am the impact of the bee Upon the blossom; in the tree I am the sap,--that shall reveal The leaf, the bloom,--that flows and flutes Up from the darkness through its roots.

I am the vermeil of the rose, The perfume breathing in its veins; The gold within the mist that glows Along the west and overflows With light the heaven; the dew that rains Its freshness down and strings with spheres Of wet the webs and oaten ears.

I am the egg that folds the bird; The song that beaks and breaks its sh.e.l.l; The laughter and the wandering word The water says; and, dimly heard, The music of the blossom's bell When soft winds swing it; and the sound Of gra.s.s slow-creeping o'er the ground.

I am the warmth, the honey-scent That throats with spice each lily-bud That opens, white with wonderment, Beneath the moon; or, downward bent, Sleeps with a moth beneath its hood: I am the dream that haunts it too, That crystallizes into dew.

I am the seed within the pod; The worm within its closed coc.o.o.n: The wings within the circling clod, The germ, that gropes through soil and sod To beauty, radiant in the noon: I am all these, behold! and more-- I am the love at the world-heart's core.

ELUSION

I

My soul goes out to her who says, "Come, follow me and cast off care!"

Then tosses back her sun-bright hair, And like a flower before me sways Between the green leaves and my gaze: This creature like a girl, who smiles Into my eyes and softly lays Her hand in mine and leads me miles, Long miles of haunted forest ways.

II

Sometimes she seems a faint perfume, A fragrance that a flower exhaled And G.o.d gave form to; now, unveiled, A sunbeam making gold the gloom Of vines that roof some woodland room Of boughs; and now the silvery sound Of streams her presence doth a.s.sume-- Music, from which, in dreaming drowned, A crystal shape she seems to bloom.

III

Sometimes she seems the light that lies On foam of waters where the fern s.h.i.+mmers and drips; now, at some turn Of woodland, bright against the skies, She seems the rainbowed mist that flies; And now the mossy fire that breaks Beneath the feet in azure eyes Of flowers; now the wind that shakes Pale petals from the bough that sighs.

IV

Sometimes she lures me with a song; Sometimes she guides me with a laugh; Her white hand is a magic staff, Her look a spell to lead me long: Though she be weak and I be strong, She needs but shake her happy hair, But glance her eyes, and, right or wrong, My soul must follow--anywhere She wills--far from the world's loud throng.

V

Sometimes I think that she must be No part of earth, but merely this-- The fair, elusive thing we miss In Nature, that we dream we see Yet never see: that goldenly Beckons; that, limbed with rose and pearl, The Greek made a divinity:-- A nymph, a G.o.d, a glimmering girl, That haunts the forest's mystery.

WOMANHOOD

I

The summer takes its hue From something opulent as fair in her, And the bright heaven is brighter than it was; Brighter and lovelier, Arching its beautiful blue, Serene and soft, as her sweet gaze, o'er us.

II

The springtime takes its moods From something in her made of smiles and tears, And flowery earth is flowerier than before, And happier, it appears, Adding new mult.i.tudes To flowers, like thoughts, that haunt us evermore.

III

Summer and spring are wed In her--her nature; and the glamour of Their loveliness, their bounty, as it were, Of life and joy and love, Her being seems to shed,-- The magic aura of the heart of her.

THE IDYLL OF THE STANDING STONE

The teasel and the horsemint spread The hillside as with sunset, sown With blossoms, o'er the Standing-Stone That ripples in its rocky bed: There are no treasuries that hold Gold richer than the marigold That crowns its sparkling head.

'Tis harvest time: a mower stands Among the morning wheat and whets His scythe, and for a s.p.a.ce forgets The labor of the ripening lands; Then bends, and through the dewy grain His long scythe hisses, and again He swings it in his hands.

And she beholds him where he mows On acres whence the water sends Faint music of reflecting bends And falls that interblend with flows: She stands among the old bee-gums,-- Where all the apiary hums,-- A simple bramble-rose.