The Triumph of Music, and Other Lyrics. Madison Julius Cawein

I only feel that she is there;

       For when my heart is most alone

       There broods communion on the air,

       Concedes an influence not its own,

       Miraculously fair.

      Then fain is it to sing and sing,

       And then again to fly and fly

       Beyond the flight of cloud or wing,

       Far under azure arcs of sky.

       Its love at her chaste feet to fling,

       Behold her face and die.

QUESTIONINGS.

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      Now when wan winter sunsets be

       Canary-colored down the sky;

       When nights are starless utterly,

       And sleeted winds cut moaning by,

       One's memory keeps one company,

       And conscience puts his "when" and "why."

      Such inquisition, when alone,

       Wakes superstition in the head,

       A Gorgon face of hueless stone

       With staring eyes to terror wed,

       Stamped on her brow God's words, "Unknown!

       Behind the dead, behind the dead."

      And, oh! that weariness of soul

       That leans upon our dead, the clod

       And air have taken as a whole

       Through some mysterious period:—

       Life! with thy questions of control:

       Death! with thy unguessed laws of God.

WAITING.

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      Were we in May now, while

       Our souls are yearning,

       Sad hearts would bound and smile

       With red blood burning;

       Around the tedious dial

       No slow hands turning.

      Were we in May now, say,

       What joy to know

       Her heart's streams pulse away

       In winds that blow,

       See graceful limbs of May

       Revealed to glow.

      Were we in May now, think

       What wealth she has;

       The dog-tooth violets pink,

       Wind-flowers like glass,

       About the wood brook's brink

       Dark sassafras.

      Nights, which the large stars strew

       Heav'n on heav'n rolled,

       Nights, whose feet flash with dew,

       Whose long locks hold

       Aromas cool and new,

       A moon's curved gold.

      This makes me sad in March;

       I long and long

       To see the red-bud's torch

       Flame far and strong,

       Hear on my vine-climbed porch

       The blue-bird's song.

      What else then but to sleep

       And cease from such;

       Dream of her and to leap

       At her white touch?

       Ah me! then wake and weep,

       Weep overmuch.

      This is why day by day

       Time lamely crawls,

       Feet clogged with winter clay

       That never falls,

       While the dim month of May

       Me far off calls.

IN LATE FALL.

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      Such days as break the wild bird's heart;

       Such days as kill it and its songs;

       A death which knows a sweeter part

       Of days to which such death belongs.

      And now old eyes are filled with tears,

       As with the rain the frozen flowers;

       Time moves so slowly one but fears

       The burthen on his wasted powers.

      And so he stopped;—and thou art dead!

       And that is found which once was feared:—

       A farewell to thy gray, gray head,

       A goodnight to thy goodly beard!

MIDWINTER.

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      The dew-drop from the rose that slips

       Hath not the sparkle of her lips,

       My lady's lips.

      Than her long braids of yellow hold

       The dandelion hath not more gold,

       Her braids like gold.

      The blue-bell hints not more of skies

       Than do the flowers in her eyes,

       My lady's eyes.

      The sweet-pea blossom doth not wear

       More dainty pinkness than her ear,

       My lady's ear.

      So, heigho! then, tho' skies be gray,

       My heart's a garden that is gay

       This sorry day.

LONGING.

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      When rathe wind-flowers many peer

       All rain filled at blue April skies,

       As on one smiles one's lady dear

       With the big tear-drops in her eyes;

      When budded May-apples, I wis,

       Be hidden by lone greenwood creeks,

       Be bashful as her cheeks we kiss,

       Be waxen as her dimpled cheeks;

      Then do I pine for happier skies,

       Shy wild-flowers fair by hill and burn;

       As one for one's sweet lady's eyes,

       And her white cheeks might pine and yearn.

IN MIDDLE SPRING.

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