Weeds by the Wall: Verses. Madison Julius Cawein

Silvering the ledges that it rippled from—

       An isolated slip of fallen sky,

       Epitomizing heaven in its sum—

       An iris bloomed—blue, as if, flower-disguised,

       The gaze of Spring had there materialized.

      I have forgotten many things since then—

       Much beauty and much happiness and grief;

       And toiled and dreamed among my fellow-men,

       Rejoicing in the knowledge life is brief.

       "'T is winter now," so says each barren bough;

       And face and hair proclaim 't is winter now.

      I would forget the gladness of that spring!

       I would forget that day when she and I,

       Between the bird-song and the blossoming,

       Went hand in hand beneath the soft spring sky!—

       Much is forgotten, yea—and yet, and yet,

       The things we would we never can forget.—

      Nor I how May then minted treasuries

       Of crowfoot gold; and molded out of light

       The sorrel's cups, whose elfin chalices

       Of limpid spar were streaked with rosy white.

       Nor all the stars of twinkling spiderwort,

       And mandrake moons with which her brows were girt.

      But most of all, yea, it were well for me,

       Me and my heart, that I forget that flower,

       The wild blue iris, azure fleur-de-lis,

       That she and I together found that hour.

       Its recollection can but emphasize

       The pain of loss, remindful of her eyes.

THE PATH BY THE CREEK.

       Table of Contents

      There is a path that leads

       Through purple iron-weeds,

       By button-bush and mallow

       Along a creek;

       A path that wildflowers hallow,

       That wild birds seek;

       Roofed thick with eglantine

       And grape and trumpet-vine.

      This side, blackberries sweet

       Glow cobalt in the heat;

       That side, a creamy yellow,

       In summertime

       The pawpaws slowly mellow;

       And autumn's prime

       Strews red the Chickasaw,

       Persimmon brown and haw.

      The glittering dragon-fly,

       A wingéd flash, goes by;

       And tawny wasp and hornet

       Seem gleams that drone;

       The beetle, like a garnet,

       Slips from the stone;

       And butterflies float there,

       Spangling with gold the air.

      Here the brown thrashers hide,

       The chat and cat-bird chide;

       The blue kingfisher houses

       Above the stream,

       And here the heron drowses

       Lost in his dream;

       The vireo's flitting note

       Haunts all the wild remote.

      And now a cow's slow bell

       Tinkles along the dell;

       Where breeze-dropped petals winnow

       From blossomy limbs

       On waters, where the minnow,

       Faint-twinkling, swims;

       Where, in the root-arched shade,

       Slim prisms of light are laid.

      When in the tangled thorn

       The new-moon hangs a horn,

       Or, 'mid the sunset's islands,

       Guides a canoe,

       The brown owl in the silence

       Calls, and the dew

       Beads here its orbs of damp,

       Each one a firefly lamp.

      Then when the night is still

       Here sings the whippoorwill;

       And stealthy sounds of crickets,

       And winds that pass,

       Whispering, through bramble thickets

       Along the grass,

       Faint with far scents of hay,

       Seem feet of dreams astray.

      And where the water shines

       Dark through tree-twisted vines,

       Some water-spirit, dreaming,

       Braids in her hair

       A star's reflection; seeming

       A jewel there;

       While all the sweet night long

       Ripples her quiet song. …

      Would I could imitate,

       O path, thy happy state!

       Making my life all beauty,

       All bloom and beam;

       Knowing no other duty

       Than just to dream,

       And far from pain and woe

       Lead feet that come and go.

      Leading to calm content,

       O'er ways the Master went,

       Through lowly things and humble,

       To peace and love;

       Teaching the lives that stumble

       To look above,

       Forget the world of toil

       And all its sad turmoil.

THE ROAD HOME.

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      Over the hills, as the pewee flies,

       Under the blue of the Southern skies;

       Over the hills, where the red-bird wings

       Like a scarlet blossom, or sits and sings:

      Under the shadow of rock and tree,

       Where the warm wind drones with the honey-bee;

       And the tall wild-carrots around you sway

       Their lace-like flowers of cloudy gray:

      By the black-cohosh with its pearly plume

       A nod in the woodland's odorous gloom;

       By the old rail-fence, in the elder's shade,

       That the myriad hosts of the weeds invade:

      Where the butterfly-weed, like a coal of fire,

       Blurs orange-red through bush and brier;

       Where the pennyroyal and mint smell sweet,