Poems by Madison Julius Cawein Part 6

THE WIND OF SPRING

The wind that breathes of columbines And celandines that crowd the rocks; That shakes the balsam of the pines With laughter from his airy locks, Stops at my city door and knocks.

He calls me far a-forest, where The twin-leaf and the blood-root bloom; And, circled by the amber air, Life sits with beauty and perfume Weaving the new web of her loom.

He calls me where the waters run Through fronding ferns where wades the hern; And, sparkling in the equal sun, Song leans above her br.i.m.m.i.n.g urn, And dreams the dreams that love shall learn.

The wind has summoned, and I go: To read G.o.d's meaning in each line The wildflowers write; and, walking slow, G.o.d's purpose, of which song is sign,-- The wind's great, gusty hand in mine.

THE CATBIRD

I

The tufted gold of the sa.s.safras, And the gold of the spicewood-bush, Bewilder the ways of the forest pa.s.s, And brighten the underbrush: The white-starred drifts of the wild-plum tree, And the haw with its pearly plumes, And the redbud, misted rosily, Dazzle the woodland glooms.

II

And I hear the song of the catbird wake I' the boughs o' the gnarled wild-crab, Or there where the snows of the dogwood shake, That the silvery sunbeams stab: And it seems to me that a magic lies In the crystal sweet of its notes, That a myriad blossoms open their eyes As its strain above them floats.

III

I see the bluebell's blue unclose, And the trillium's stainless white; The birdfoot-violet's purple and rose, And the poppy, golden-bright!

And I see the eyes of the bluet wink, And the heads of the white-hearts nod; And the baby mouths of the woodland-pink And sorrel salute the sod.

IV

And this, meseems, does the catbird say, As the blossoms crowd i' the sun:-- "Up, up! and out! oh, out and away!

Up, up! and out, each one!

Sweethearts! sweethearts! oh, sweet, sweet, sweet!

Come listen and hark to me!

The Spring, the Spring, with her fragrant feet, Is pa.s.sing this way!--Oh, hark to the beat Of her beelike heart!--Oh, sweet, sweet, sweet!

Come! open your eyes and see!

See, see, see!"

A WOODLAND GRAVE

White moons may come, white moons may go-- She sleeps where early blossoms blow; Knows nothing of the leafy June, That leans above her night and noon, Crowned now with sunbeam, now with moon, Watching her roses grow.

The downy moth at twilight comes And flutters round their honeyed blooms: Long, lazy clouds, like ivory, That isle the blue lagoons of sky, Redden to molten gold and dye With flame the pine-deep glooms.

Dew, dripping from wet fern and leaf; The wind, that shakes the violet's sheaf; The slender sound of water lone, That makes a harp-string of some stone, And now a wood bird's glimmering moan, Seem whisperings there of grief.

Her garden, where the lilacs grew, Where, on old walls, old roses blew, Head-heavy with their mellow musk, Where, when the beetle's drone was husk, She lingered in the dying dusk, No more shall know that knew.

Her orchard,--where the Spring and she Stood listening to each bird and bee,-- That, from its fragrant firmament, Snowed blossoms on her as she went, (A blossom with their blossoms blent) No more her face shall see.

White moons may come, white moons may go-- She sleeps where early blossoms blow: Around her headstone many a seed Shall sow itself; and brier and weed Shall grow to hide it from men's heed, And none will care or know.

SUNSET DREAMS

The moth and beetle wing about The garden ways of other days; Above the hills, a fiery shout Of gold, the day dies slowly out, Like some wild blast a huntsman blows: And o'er the hills my Fancy goes, Following the sunset's golden call Unto a vine-hung garden wall, Where she awaits me in the gloom, Between the lily and the rose, With arms and lips of warm perfume, The dream of Love my Fancy knows.

The glowworm and the firefly glow Among the ways of bygone days; A golden shaft shot from a bow Of silver, star and moon swing low Above the hills where twilight lies: And o'er the hills my Longing flies, Following the star's far-arrowed gold, Unto a gate where, as of old, She waits amid the rose and rue, With star-bright hair and night-dark eyes, The dream, to whom my heart is true, My dream of Love that never dies.

THE OLD BYWAY

Its rotting fence one scarcely sees Through sumac and wild blackberries, Thick elder and the bramble-rose, Big ox-eyed daisies where the bees Hang droning in repose.

The little lizards lie all day Gray on its rocks of lichen-gray; And, insect-Ariels of the sun, The b.u.t.terflies make bright its way, Its path where chipmunks run.

A lyric there the redbird lifts, While, twittering, the swallow drifts 'Neath wandering clouds of sleepy cream,-- In which the wind makes azure rifts,-- O'er dells where wood-doves dream.

The brown gra.s.shoppers rasp and bound Mid weeds and briers that hedge it round; And in its gra.s.s-grown ruts,--where stirs The harmless snake,--mole-crickets sound Their faery dulcimers.

At evening, when the sad west turns To lonely night a cheek that burns, The tree-toads in the wild-plum sing; And ghosts of long-dead flowers and ferns The winds wake, whispering.

"BELOW THE SUNSET'S RANGE OF ROSE"

Below the sunset's range of rose, Below the heaven's deepening blue, Down woodways where the balsam blows, And milkweed tufts hang, gray with dew, A Jersey heifer stops and lows-- The cows come home by one, by two.

There is no star yet: but the smell Of hay and pennyroyal mix With herb aromas of the dell, Where the root-hidden cricket clicks: Among the ironweeds a bell Clangs near the rail-fenced clover-ricks.

She waits upon the slope beside The windla.s.sed well the plum trees shade, The well curb that the goose-plums hide; Her light hand on the bucket laid, Unbonneted she waits, glad-eyed, Her gown as simple as her braid.

She sees fawn-colored backs among The sumacs now; a tossing horn Its clas.h.i.+ng bell of copper rung: Long shadows lean upon the corn, And slow the day dies, scarlet stung, The cloud in it a rosy thorn.

Below the pleasant moon, that tips The tree tops of the hillside, fly The flitting bats; the twilight slips, In firefly spangles, twinkling by, Through which _he_ comes: Their happy lips Meet--and one star leaps in the sky.

He takes her bucket, and they speak Of married hopes while in the gra.s.s The plum drops glowing as her cheek; The patient cows look back or pa.s.s: And in the west one golden streak Burns as if G.o.d gazed through a gla.s.s.

MUSIC OF SUMMER

I

Thou sit'st among the sunny silences Of terraced hills and woodland galleries, Thou utterance of all calm melodies, Thou lutanist of Earth's most affluent lute,-- Where no false note intrudes To mar the silent music,--branch and root,-- Charming the fields ripe, orchards and deep woods, To song similitudes Of flower and seed and fruit.