The Garden of Dreams. Cawein Madison Julius

her coming slow,

      Sweet May, among the columbines?

      With redbud cheeks and bluet eyes,

      Big eyes, the homes of happiness,

      To meet me with the old surprise,

      Her hoiden hair all bonnetless.

      Who waits for me, where, note for note,

      The birds make glad the forest-trees?

      A dogwood blossom at her throat,

      My May among the anemones.

      As sweetheart breezes kiss the blooms,

      And dewdrops drink the moonlight's gleams,

      My soul shall kiss her lips' perfumes,

      And drink the magic of her dreams.

      COMRADERY

      With eyes hand-arched he looks into

      The morning's face, then turns away

      With schoolboy feet, all wet with dew,

      Out for a holiday.

      The hill brook sings, incessant stars,

      Foam-fashioned, on its restless breast;

      And where he wades its water-bars

      Its song is happiest.

      A comrade of the chinquapin,

      He looks into its knotted eyes

      And sees its heart; and, deep within,

      Its soul that makes him wise.

      The wood-thrush knows and follows him,

      Who whistles up the birds and bees;

      And 'round him all the perfumes swim

      Of woodland loam and trees.

      Where'er he pass the supple springs'

      Foam-people sing the flowers awake;

      And sappy lips of bark-clad things

      Laugh ripe each fruited brake.

      His touch is a companionship;

      His word, an old authority:

      He comes, a lyric at his lip,

      Unstudied Poesy.

      OCCULT

      Unto the soul's companionship

      Of things that only seem to be,

      Earth points with magic fingertip

      And bids thee see

      How Fancy keeps thee company.

      For oft at dawn hast not beheld

      A spirit of prismatic hue

      Blow wide the buds, which night has swelled?

      And stain them through

      With heav'n's ethereal gold and blue?

      While at her side another went

      With gleams of enigmatic white?

      A spirit who distributes scent,

      To vale and height,

      In footsteps of the rosy light?

      And oft at dusk hast thou not seen

      The star-fays bring their caravans

      Of dew, and glitter all the green,

      Night's shadow tans,

      From many starbeam sprinkling-cans?

      Nor watched with these the elfins go

      Who tune faint instruments? whose sound

      Is that moon-music insects blow

      When all the ground

      Sleeps, and the night is hushed around?

      WOOD-WORDS

I

      The spirits of the forest,

      That to the winds give voice —

      I lie the livelong April day

      And wonder what it is they say

      That makes the leaves rejoice.

      The spirits of the forest,

      That breathe in bud and bloom —

      I walk within the black-haw brake

      And wonder how it is they make

      The bubbles of perfume.

      The spirits of the forest,

      That live in every spring —

      I lean above the brook's bright blue

      And wonder what it is they do

      That makes the water sing.

      The spirits of the forest.

      That haunt the sun's green glow —

      Down fungus ways of fern I steal

      And wonder what they can conceal,

      In dews, that twinkles so.

      The spirits of the forest,

      They hold me, heart and hand —

      And, oh! the bird they send by light,

      The jack-o'-lantern gleam by night,

      To guide to Fairyland!

II

      The time when dog-tooth violets

      Hold up inverted horns of gold, —

      The elvish cups that Spring upsets

      With dripping feet, when April wets

      The sun-and-shadow-marbled wold, —

      Is come. And by each leafing way

      The sorrel drops pale blots of pink;

      And, like an angled star a fay

      Sets on her forehead's pallid day,

      The blossoms of the trillium wink.

      Within the vale, by rock and stream, —

      A fragile, fairy porcelain, —

      Blue as a baby's eyes a-dream,

      The bluets blow; and gleam in gleam

      The sun-shot dog-woods flash with rain.

      It is the time to cast off care;

      To make glad intimates of these: —

      The frank-faced sunbeam laughing there;

      The great-heart wind, that bids us share

      The optimism of the trees.

III

      The white ghosts of the flowers,

      The green ghosts of the trees:

      They haunt the blooming bowers,

      They haunt the wildwood hours,

      And whisper in the breeze.

      For in the wildrose places,

      And on the beechen knoll,

      My soul hath seen their faces,

      My soul hath met their races,

      And felt their dim control.

IV

      Crab-apple buds, whose bells

      The mouth of April kissed;

      That hang, – like rosy shells

      Around a naiad's wrist, —

      Pink as dawn-tinted mist.

      And