Poems. Cawein Madison Julius

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        The golden discs of the rattlesnake-weed,

          That spangle the woods and dance—

        No gleam of gold that the twilights hold

          Is strong as their necromance:

        For, under the oaks where the woodpaths lead,

        The golden discs of the rattlesnake-weed

          Are the May's own utterance.

        The azure stars of the bluet bloom,

          That sprinkle the woodland's trance—

        No blink of blue that a cloud lets through

          Is sweet as their countenance:

        For, over the knolls that the woods perfume,

        The azure stars of the bluet bloom

          Are the light of the May's own glance.

        With her wondering words and her looks she comes,

          In a sunbeam of a gown;

        She needs but think and the blossoms wink,

          But look, and they shower down.

        By orchard ways, where the wild bee hums,

        With her wondering words and her looks she comes

          Like a little maid to town.

        What little things are those

          That hold our happiness!

        A smile, a glance, a rose

          Dropped from her hair or dress;

        A word, a look, a touch,—

          These are so much, so much.

        An air we can't forget;

          A sunset's gold that gleams;

        A spray of mignonette,

          Will fill the soul with dreams

        More than all history says,

          Or romance of old days.

        For of the human heart,

          Not brain, is memory;

        These things it makes a part

          Of its own entity;

        The joys, the pains whereof

          Are the very food of love.

        In the shadow of the beeches,

          Where the fragile wildflowers bloom;

        Where the pensive silence pleaches

          Green a roof of cool perfume,

        Have you felt an awe imperious

        As when, in a church, mysterious

          Windows paint with God the gloom?

        In the shadow of the beeches,

          Where the rock-ledged waters flow;

        Where the sun's slant splendor bleaches

          Every wave to foaming snow,

        Have you felt a music solemn

        As when minster arch and column

          Echo organ worship low?

        In the shadow of the beeches,

          Where the light and shade are blent;

        Where the forest bird beseeches,

          And the breeze is brimmed with scent,—

        Is it joy or melancholy

        That o'erwhelms us partly, wholly,

          To our spirit's betterment?

        In the shadow of the beeches

          Lay me where no eye perceives;

        Where,—like some great arm that reaches

          Gently as a love that grieves,—

        One gnarled root may clasp me kindly,

        While the long years, working blindly,

          Slowly change my dust to leaves.

        Passion? not hers! who held me with pure eyes:

          One hand among the deep curls of her brow,

        I drank the girlhood of her gaze with sighs:

          She never sighed, nor gave me kiss or vow.

        So have I seen a clear October pool,

          Cold, liquid topaz, set within the sere

        Gold of the woodland, tremorless and cool,

          Reflecting all the heartbreak of the year.

        Sweetheart? not she! whose voice was music-sweet;

          Whose face loaned language to melodious prayer.

        Sweetheart I called her.—When did she repeat

          Sweet to one hope, or heart to one despair!

        So have I seen a wildflower's fragrant head

          Sung to and sung to by a longing bird;

        And at the last, albeit the bird lay dead,

          No blossom wilted, for it had not heard.

        Upon the mossed rock by the spring

          She sits, forgetful of her pail,

        Lost in remote remembering

          Of that which may no more avail.

        Her thin, pale hair is dimly dressed

          Above a brow lined deep with care,

        The color of a leaf long pressed,

          A faded leaf that once was fair.

        You may not know her from the stone

          So still she sits who does not stir,

        Thinking of this one thing alone—

          The love that never came to her.

        Dusk is thy dawn; when Eve puts on its state

          Of gold and purple in the marbled west,

        Thou comest forth like some embodied trait,

          Or dim conceit, a lily bud СКАЧАТЬ