Poems. Cawein Madison Julius

bearer of their order's shibboleth,

          Like some pale symbol fluttering o'er these pinks.

        What dost them whisper in the balsam's ear

          That sets it blushing, or the hollyhock's,—

        A syllabled silence that no man may hear,—

          As dreamily upon its stem it rocks?

        What spell dost bear from listening plant to plant,

        Like some white witch, some ghostly ministrant,

          Some specter 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 faery firmaments wherein one sees

        Mimic Boötes and the Pleiades,

          Thou steerest like some faery 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.—

        Oh 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!

      THE OLD FARM

        Dormered and verandaed, cool,

          Locust-girdled, on the hill;

        Stained with weather-wear, and dull-

          Streak'd with lichens; every sill

        Thresholding the beautiful;

        I can see it standing there,

          Brown above the woodland deep,

        Wrapped in lights of lavender,

          By the warm wind rocked asleep,

        Violet shadows everywhere.

        I remember how the Spring,

          Liberal-lapped, bewildered its

        Acred orchards, murmuring,

          Kissed to blossom; budded bits

        Where the wood-thrush came to sing.

        Barefoot Spring, at first who trod,

          Like a beggermaid, adown

        The wet woodland; where the god,

          With the bright sun for a crown

        And the firmament for rod,

        Met her; clothed her; wedded her;

          Her Cophetua: when, lo!

        All the hill, one breathing blur,

          Burst in beauty; gleam and glow

        Blent with pearl and lavender.

        Seckel, blackheart, palpitant

          Rained their bleaching strays; and white

        Snowed the damson, bent aslant;

          Rambow-tree and romanite

        Seemed beneath deep drifts to pant.

        And it stood there, brown and gray,

          In the bee-boom and the bloom,

        In the shadow and the ray,

          In the passion and perfume,

        Grave as age among the gay.

        Wild with laughter romped the clear

          Boyish voices round its walls;

        Rare wild-roses were the dear

          Girlish faces in its halls,

        Music-haunted all the year.

        Far before it meadows full

          Of green pennyroyal sank;

        Clover-dotted as with wool

          Here and there; with now a bank

        Hot of color; and the cool

        Dark-blue shadows unconfined

          Of the clouds rolled overhead:

        Clouds, from which the summer wind

          Blew with rain, and freshly shed

        Dew upon the flowerkind.

        Where through mint and gypsy-lily

          Runs the rocky brook away,

        Musical among the hilly

          Solitudes,—its flashing spray

        Sunlight-dashed or forest-stilly,—

        Buried in deep sassafras,

          Memory follows up the hill

        Still some cowbell's mellow brass,

          Where the ruined water-mill

        Looms, half-hid in cane and grass….

        Oh, the farmhouse! is it set

          On the hilltop still? 'mid musk

        Of the meads? where, violet,

          Deepens all the dreaming dusk,

        And the locust-trees hang wet.

        While the sunset, far and low,

          On its westward windows dashes

        Primrose or pomegranate glow;

          And above, in glimmering splashes,

        Lilac stars the heavens sow.

        Sleeps it still among its roses,—

          Oldtime roses? while the choir

        Of the lonesome insects dozes:

          And the white moon, drifting higher,

        O'er its mossy roof reposes—

        Sleeps it still among its roses?

      THE WHIPPOORWILL

I

        Above lone woodland ways that led

        To dells the stealthy twilights tread

        The west was hot geranium red;

          And still, and still,

        Along old lanes the locusts sow

        With clustered pearls the Maytimes know,

        Deep in the crimson afterglow,

        We heard the homeward cattle low,

        And then the far-off, far-off woe

          Of "whippoorwill!" of "whippoorwill!"

II

        Beneath the idle beechen boughs

        We heard the far bells of the cows

        Come slowly jangling towards the house;

          And