Poems by Madison Julius Cawein Part 9

The mignonette and feverfew Laid their pale brows together:--"See!"

One whispered: "Did their step thrill through Your roots?"--"Like rain."--"I touched the two And a new bud was born in me."

One rose said to another:--"Whose Is this dim music? song, that parts My crimson petals like the dews?"

"My blossom trembles with sweet news-- It is the love of two young hearts."

a.s.sUMPTION

I

A mile of moonlight and the whispering wood: A mile of shadow and the odorous lane: One large, white star above the solitude, Like one sweet wish: and, laughter after pain, Wild-roses wistful in a web of rain.

II

No star, no rose, to lesson him and lead; No woodsman compa.s.s of the skies and rocks,-- Tattooed of stars and lichens,--doth love need To guide him where, among the hollyhocks, A blur of moonlight, gleam his sweetheart's locks.

III

We name it beauty--that permitted part, The love-elected apotheosis Of Nature, which the G.o.d within the heart, Just touching, makes immortal, but by this-- A star, a rose, the memory of a kiss.

SENORITA

An agate-black, your roguish eyes Claim no proud lineage of the skies, No starry blue; but of good earth The reckless witchery and mirth.

Looped in your raven hair's repose, A hot aroma, one red rose Dies; envious of that loveliness, By being near which its is less.

Twin sea sh.e.l.ls, hung with pearls, your ears, Whose slender rosiness appears Part of the pearls; whose pallid fire Binds the attention these inspire.

One slim hand crumples up the lace About your bosom's swelling grace; A ruby at your samite throat Lends the required color note.

The moon bears through the violet night A pearly urn of chaliced light; And from your dark-railed balcony You stoop and wave your fan at me.

O'er orange orchards and the rose Vague, odorous lips the south wind blows, Peopling the night with whispers of Romance and palely pa.s.sionate love.

The heaven of your balcony Smiles down two stars, that say to me More peril than Angelica Wrought with her beauty in Cathay.

Oh, stoop to me! and, speaking, reach My soul like song that learned sweet speech From some dim instrument--who knows?-- Or flower, a dulcimer or rose.

OVERSEAS

_Non numero horas nisi serenas_

When Fall drowns morns in mist, it seems In soul I am a part of it; A portion of its humid beams, A form of fog, I seem to flit From dreams to dreams....

An old chateau sleeps 'mid the hills Of France: an avenue of sorbs Conceals it: drifts of daffodils Bloom by a 'scutcheoned gate with barbs Like iron bills.

I pa.s.s the gate unquestioned; yet, I feel, announced. Broad holm-oaks make Dark pools of restless violet.

Between high bramble banks a lake,-- As in a net

The tangled scales twist silver,--s.h.i.+nes....

Gray, mossy turrets swell above A sea of leaves. And where the pines Shade ivied walls, there lies my love, My heart divines.

I know her window, slimly seen From distant lanes with hawthorn hedged: Her garden, with the nectarine Espaliered, and the peach tree, wedged 'Twixt walls of green.

Cool-babbling a fountain falls From gryphons' mouths in porphyry; Carp haunt its waters; and white b.a.l.l.s Of lilies dip it when the bee Creeps in and drawls.

And b.u.t.terflies--each with a face Of faery on its wings--that seem Beheaded pansies, softly chase Each other down the gloom and gleam Trees inters.p.a.ce.

And roses! roses, soft as vair, Round sylvan statues and the old Stone dial--Pompadours, that wear Their royalty of purple and gold With wanton air....

Her scarf, her lute, whose ribbons breathe The perfume of her touch; her gloves, Modeling the daintiness they sheathe; Her fan, a Watteau, gay with loves, Lie there beneath

A bank of eglantine, that heaps A rose-strewn shadow.--Nave-eyed, With lips as suave as they, she sleeps; The romance by her, open wide, O'er which she weeps.

PROBLEMS

Man's are the learnings of his books-- What is all knowledge that he knows Beside the wit of winding brooks, The wisdom of the summer rose!

How soil distills the scent in flowers Baffles his science: heaven-dyed, How, from the palette of His hours, G.o.d gives them colors, hath defied.

What dream of heaven begets the light?

Or, ere the stars beat burning tunes, Stains all the hollow edge of night With glory as of molten moons?

Who is it answers what is birth Or death, that nothing may r.e.t.a.r.d?

Or what is love, that seems of Earth, Yet wears G.o.d's own divine regard?

TO A WINDFLOWER

I

Teach me the secret of thy loveliness, That, being made wise, I may aspire to be As beautiful in thought, and so express Immortal truths to Earth's mortality; Though to my soul ability be less Than 'tis to thee, O sweet anemone.

II

Teach me the secret of thy innocence, That in simplicity I may grow wise; Asking of Art no other recompense Than the approval of her own just eyes; So may I rise to some fair eminence, Though less than thine, O cousin of the skies.

III

Teach me these things; through whose high knowledge, I,-- When Death hath poured oblivion through my veins, And brought me home, as all are brought, to lie In that vast house, common to serfs and thanes,-- I shall not die, I shall not utterly die, For beauty born of beauty--_that_ remains.