Shapes and Shadows. Cawein Madison Julius

crimson bugles sprinkled,

      Makes green its eastern side; the west

      Is rough with lichens; and, gray-pressed

      Into an angle wrinkled,

      The hornets hang an oblong nest.

      The north is hid from sun and star,

      And here, – like an Inquisitor

      Of Faëry Inquisition,

      That roots out Elf-land heresy, —

      Deep in the rock, with mystery

      Cowled for his grave commission,

      The Owl sits magisterially.

      Rain

      Around, the stillness deepened; then the grain

      Went wild with wind; and every briery lane

      Was swept with dust; and then, tempestuous black,

      Hillward the tempest heaved a monster back,

      That on the thunder leaned as on a cane;

      And on huge shoulders bore a cloudy pack,

      That gullied gold from many a lightning-crack:

      One great drop splashed and wrinkled down the pane,

      And then field, hill, and wood were lost in rain.

      At last, through clouds, – as from a cavern hewn

      Into night's heart, – the sun burst, angry roon;

      And every cedar, with its weight of wet,

      Against the sunset's fiery splendour set,

      Frightened to beauty, seemed with rubies strewn;

      Then in drenched gardens, like sweet phantoms met,

      Dim odours rose of pink and mignonette;

      And in the East a confidence, that soon

      Grew to the calm assurance of the Moon.

      Standing-Stone Creek

      A weed-grown slope, whereon the rain

      Has washed the brown rocks bare,

      Leads tangled from a lonely lane

      Down to a creek's broad stair

      Of stone, that, through the solitude,

      Winds onward to a quiet wood.

      An intermittent roof of shade

      The beech above it throws;

      Along its steps a balustrade

      Of beauty builds the rose;

      In which, a stately lamp of green

      At intervals the cedar's seen.

      The water, carpeting each ledge

      Of rock that runs across,

      Glints 'twixt a flow'r-embroidered edge

      Of ferns and grass and moss;

      And in its deeps the wood and sky

      Seem patterns of the softest dye.

      Long corridors of pleasant dusk

      Within the house of leaves

      It reaches; where, on looms of musk,

      The ceaseless locust weaves

      A web of summer; and perfume

      Trails a sweet gown from room to room.

      Green windows of the boughs, that swing,

      It passes, where the notes

      Of birds are glad thoughts entering,

      And butterflies are motes;

      And now a vista where the day

      Opens a door of wind and ray.

      It is a stairway for all sounds

      That haunt the woodland sides;

      On which, boy-like, the southwind bounds,

      Girl-like, the sunbeam glides;

      And, like fond parents, following these,

      The oldtime dreams of rest and peace.

      The Moonmen

      I stood in the forest on Huron Hill

      When the night was old and the world was still.

      The Wind was a wizard who muttering strode

      In a raven cloak on a haunted road.

      The Sound of Water, a witch who crooned

      Her spells to the rocks the rain had runed.

      And the Gleam of the Dew on the fern's green tip

      Was a sylvan passing with robe a-drip.

      The Light of the Stars was a glimmering maid

      Who stole, an elfin, from glade to glade.

      The Scent of the Woods in the delicate air,

      A wildflower shape with chilly hair.

      And Silence, a spirit who sat alone

      With a lifted finger and eyes of stone.

      And it seemed to me these six were met

      To greet a greater who came not yet.

      And the speech they spoke, that I listened to,

      Was the archetype of the speech I knew.

      For the Wind clasped hands with the Water's rush,