Weeds by the Wall: Verses. Cawein Madison Julius

some white witch, some ghostly ministrant,

      Some spectre of some perished flower of phlox?

      O voyager of that universe which lies

      Between the four walls of this garden fair, —

      Whose constellations are the fireflies

      That wheel their instant courses everywhere, —

      'Mid fairy firmaments wherein one sees

      Mimic Boötes and the Pleiades,

      Thou steerest like some fairy ship-of-air.

      Gnome-wrought of moonbeam fluff and gossamer,

      Silent as scent, perhaps thou chariotest

      Mab or king Oberon; or, haply, her

      His queen, Titania, on some midnight quest. —

      O for the herb, the magic euphrasy,

      That should unmask thee to mine eyes, ah, me!

      And all that world at which my soul hath guessed!

      ALONG THE STREAM

      Where the violet shadows brood

      Under cottonwoods and beeches,

      Through whose leaves the restless reaches

      Of the river glance, I've stood,

      While the red-bird and the thrush

      Set to song the morning hush.

      There, – when woodland hills encroach

      On the shadowy winding waters,

      And the bluets, April's daughters,

      At the darling Spring's approach,

      Star their myriads through the trees, —

      All the land is one with peace.

      Under some imposing cliff,

      That, with bush and tree and boulder,

      Thrusts a gray, gigantic shoulder

      O'er the stream, I've oared a skiff,

      While great clouds of berg-white hue

      Lounged along the noonday blue.

      There, – when harvest heights impend

      Over shores of rippling summer,

      And to greet the fair new-comer, —

      June, – the wildrose thickets bend

      In a million blossoms dressed, —

      All the land is one with rest.

      On some rock, where gaunt the oak

      Reddens and the sombre cedar

      Darkens, like a sachem leader,

      I have lain and watched the smoke

      Of the steamboat, far away,

      Trailed athwart the dying day.

      There, – when margin waves reflect

      Autumn colors, gay and sober,

      And the Indian-girl, October,

      Wampum-like in berries decked,

      Sits beside the leaf-strewn streams, —

      All the land is one with dreams.

      Through the bottoms where, – out-tossed

      By the wind's wild hands, – ashiver

      Lean the willows o'er the river,

      I have walked in sleet and frost,

      While beneath the cold round moon,

      Frozen, gleamed the long lagoon.

      There, – when leafless woods uplift

      Spectral arms the storm-blasts splinter,

      And the hoary trapper, Winter,

      Builds his camp of ice and drift,

      With his snow-pelts furred and shod, —

      All the land is one with God.

      THE CRICKET

I

      First of the insect choir, in the spring

      We hear his faint voice fluttering in the grass,

      Beneath some blossom's rosy covering

      Or frond of fern upon a wildwood pass.

      When in the marsh, in clamorous orchestras,

      The shrill hylodes pipe; when, in the haw's

      Bee-swarming blooms, or tasseling sassafras,

      Sweet threads of silvery song the sparrow draws,

      Bow-like, athwart the vibrant atmosphere, —

      Like some dim dream low-breathed in slumber's ear, —

      We hear his "Cheer, cheer, cheer."

II

      All summer through the mellowing meadows thrill

      To his blithe music. Be it day or night,

      Close gossip of the grass, on field and hill

      He serenades the silence with delight:

      Silence, that hears the melon slowly split

      With ripeness; and the plump peach, hornet-bit,

      Loosen and fall; and everywhere the white,

      Warm, silk-like stir of leafy lights that flit

      As breezes blow; above which, loudly clear, —

      Like joy who sings of life and has no fear, —

      We hear his "Cheer, cheer, cheer."

III

      Then in the autumn, by the waterside,

      Leaf-huddled; or along the weed-grown walks,

      He dirges low the flowers that have died,

      Or with their ghosts holds solitary talks.

      Lover of warmth, all day above the click

      And crunching of the sorghum-press, through thick

      Sweet steam of juice; all night when, white as chalk,

      The hunter's-moon hangs o'er the rustling rick,

      Within the barn 'mid munching cow and steer, —

      Soft as a memory the heart holds dear, —

      We hear his "Cheer, cheer, cheer."

IV

      Kinsman and cousin of the Faëry Race,

      All winter long he sets his sober mirth, —

      That brings good-luck to many a fire-place, —

      To folk-lore song and story of the hearth.

      Between the back-log's bluster and the slim

      High twittering of the kettle, – sounds that hymn

      Home-comforts, – when, outside, the starless Earth

      Is icicled in every laden limb, —

      Defying frost and all the sad and sear, —

      Like love that dies not and is always near, —

      We hear his "Cheer, cheer, cheer."

      VOICES

      When blood-root blooms and trillium flowers

      Unclasp their stars to sun and rain,

      My heart strikes hands with winds and showers

      And wanders in the woods again.

      O urging impulse, born of spring,

      That