The Poems of Madison Cawein. Volume 2 (of 5). Cawein Madison Julius

paints their wings with the hues that glow

      On blossoms: squeezing from tubes of dew

      Pansy colors of every hue

      On his bloom’s pied pallet, he paints the wings

      Of the butterflies, moths, and other things.

      This is the elf that the hollyhocks hear,

      Who dangles a brilliant in each one’s ear;

      Teases at noon the pane’s green fly,

      And lights at night the glow-worm’s eye.

      But the dearest elf, so the poets say,

      Is the elf who hides in an eye of gray;

      Who curls in a dimple or slips along

      The strings of a lute to a lover’s song;

      Who smiles in her smile and frowns in her frown,

      And dreams in the scent of her glove or gown;

      Hides and beckons, as all may note,

      In the bloom or the bow of a maiden’s throat.

      XVII

She, pensively, standing among the flowers:

      Soft through the trees the night wind sighs,

      And swoons and dies.

      Above, the stars hang wanly white;

      Here, through the dark,

      A drizzled gold, the fireflies

      Rain mimic stars in spark on spark.—

      ’Tis time to part, to say good night.

      Good night.

      From fern to flower the night-moths cross

      At drowsy loss.

      The moon drifts, veiled, through clouds of white;

      And pearly pale,

      In silvery blurs, through beds of moss,

      Their tiny moons the glow-worms trail.—

      ’Tis time to part, to say good night.

      Good night.

      XVIII

He, at parting, as they proceed down the garden:

      You say we can not marry, now

      That roses and the June are here?

      To your decision I must bow.—

      Ah, well!—perhaps ’t is best, my dear.

      Let’s swear again each old love vow

      And love another year.

      Another year of love with you!

      Of dreams and days, of sun and rain!

      When field and forest bloom anew,

      And locust clusters pelt the lane,

      When all the song-birds wed and woo,

      I’ll not take “no” again.

      Oft shall I lie awake and mark

      The hours by no clanging clock,

      But, in the dim and dewy dark,

      Far crowing of some punctual cock;

      Then up, as early as the lark

      To meet you by our rock.

      The rock, where first we met at tryst;

      Where first I wooed and won your love.—

      Remember how the moon and mist

      Made mystery of the heaven above

      As now to-night?—Where first I kissed

      Your lips, you trembling like a dove.

      So, then, we will not marry now

      That roses and the June are here,

      That warmth and fragrance weigh each bough?

      And, yet, your reason is not clear …

      Ah, well! We ’ll swear anew each vow

      And wait another year.

      PART II

      EARLY SUMMER

      The cricket in the rose-bush hedge

      Sings by the vine-entangled gate;

      The slim moon slants a timid edge

      Of pearl through one low cloud of slate;

      Around dark door and window-ledge

      Like dreams the shadows wait.

      And through the summer dusk she goes,

      On her white breast a crimson rose.

      I

She delays, meditating. A rainy afternoon

      Gray skies and a foggy rain

      Dripping from streaming eaves;

      Over and over again

      Dull drop of the trickling leaves:

      And the woodward-winding lane,

      And the hill with its shocks of sheaves

      One scarce perceives.

      Shall I go in such wet weather

      By the lane or over the hill?—

      Where the blossoming milkweed’s feather

      The diamonded rain-drops fill;

      Where, draggled and drenched together,

      The ox-eyes rank the rill

      By the old corn-mill.

      The creek by now is swollen,

      And its foaming cascades sound;

      And the lilies, smeared with pollen,

      In the dam look dull and drowned.

      ’Tis the path I oft have stolen

      To the bridge; that rambles round

      With willows bound.

      Through a bottom wild with berry,

      And packed with the ironweeds

      And elder,—washed and very

      Fragrant,—the fenced path leads

      Past oak and wilding cherry,

      Where the tall wild-lettuce seeds,

      To a place of reeds.

      The sun through the sad sky bleaches—

      Is that a thrush that calls?—

      A bird in the rain beseeches:

      And see! on the balsam’s balls,

      And leaves of the water-beeches—

      One blister of wart-like galls—

      No rain-drop falls.

      My shawl instead of a bonnet!…

      ’Though the woods be dripping yet,

      Through the wet to the rock I’ll run it!—

      How sweet to meet in the wet!—

      Our rock with the vine upon it,—

      Each flower a fiery jet,—

      Where oft we ’ve met.

      II

They meet. He speaks:

      How fresh the purple clover

      Smells in its veil of rain!

      And where the leaves brim over

      How musky wild the lane!

      See, how