Days and Dreams: Poems. Cawein Madison Julius

the copper of the nuts that choke;

      Above our bristling way the spider weaves

      A glittering web for which the Dawn designs

      Thrice twenty rows of sparkles. By the oak,

      That rolls old roots in many gnarly lines,

      The acorn thimble, smoothly broke,

      Shines by its saucer. On sonorous pines

      The far wind organs; but the forest here

      To no weak breeze hath woke;

      Far off the wind, but crumbling near and near, —

      Each tingling twig expectant, and the gray

      Surmise of heaven pilots it the way,

      Rippling the leafy spines,

      Until the wildwood, one exultant sway,

      Booms, and the sunlight, arrowing through it, shines

      Visible applause you hear.

      How glows the garden! though the white mists keep

      The vagabond in flowers reminded of

      Decay that comes to slay in open love,

      When the full moon hangs cold and night is deep,

      Unheeding such their cardinal colors leap

      Gay in the crescent of the blade of death;

      Spaced innocents in swaths he weeps to reap,

      Waiting his scythe a breath,

      To gravely lay them dead with one last sweep. —

      Long, long admire

      Their splendors manifold: —

      The scarlet salvia showered with spurts of fire;

      Cascading lattices, dark vines that creep,

      Nightshade and cypress; there the marigold

      Burning – a shred of orange sunset caught

      And elfed in petals that eve's goblins brought

      From elfland; there, predominant red,

      The dahlia lifts its head

      By the white balsams' red-bruised horns of honey,

      In humming spaces sunny.

      The crickets singing dirges noon and night

      For morn-born flowers, at dusk already dead,

      For dusk-dead flowers weep;

      While tired Summer white,

      Where yonder aster whispering odor rocks, —

      The withered poppies knotted in her locks, —

      Sighs, 'mong her sleepy hollyhocks asleep.

2

      The hips were reddening on the rose,

      The haws hung slips of fire;

      We went the woodland way that goes

      Up hills of branch and briar.

      The hooked thorn held her gown and seemed

      Imploring her be staying

      The sunlight of herself that beamed

      Beside it gently swaying.

      Low bent the golden saxifrage;

      Its yellow bells like bangles

      The foxglove fluttered. Like a page —

      From out the rail-fence angles —

      With crimson plume the sumach, hosed

      In Lincoln green, attended

      My lady of the elder, posed

      In blue-black jewels splendid.

      And as we mounted up the hill

      The rocky path that stumbled

      Spread smooth; and all the day was still

      And odorous with umbled

      Tops of wild-carrots drying gray;

      And there, soft-sunned before us,