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

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      “Such days as these,” she said, and bent

      Among her marigolds, all dew,

      And dripping zinnia stems, “were meant

      For spring not autumn; days we knew

      In childhood; these endearing those;

      Much dearer since they have grown old:

      Days, once imperfect with the rose,

      Now perfect with the marigold.”

      “Such days as these,” he said, and gazed

      Long with unlifted eyes that held

      Sad autumn nights, “our hopes have raised

      In futures that are mist-enspelled.

      And so it is the fog blows in

      Days dearer for the death they paint

      With hues of life and joy,—as sin,

      At death, puts off all earthly taint.”

      Like deeds of hearts that have not kept

      Their riches, as a miser, when

      Sad souls have asked, with eyes that wept,

      Among the toiling tribes of men,

      The summer days gave Earth sweet alms

      In silver of white lilies, while

      Each night, with healing, outstretched palms

      Stood Christ-like with its starry smile.

      Will she remember him when dull

      Months drag their duller hours by?

      With feet that crush the beautiful

      And leave the beautiful to die?

      Or never see? nor sit with lost

      Dreams withered, ’mid hope’s empty husks,

      And wait, heart-counting-up the cost

      Of love’s illusions ’mid life’s dusks?

      He is as one who, treading salty scurf

      Of lonely sea-sands, hears the roaring rocks

      Of some lost isle of misty crags and lochs;

      Who sees no sea, but, through a world of surf,

      Gray ghosts of gulls and screaming petrel flocks:

      When, from the deep’s white ruin and wild wreck,

      Above the fog, beneath the ghostly gull,

      The iron ribs of some storm-shattered hull

      Loom, packed with pirate treasure to the deck

      A century rotten: feels his wealth replete,

      When long-baulked ocean claims it; and one dull

      Wave flings, derisive at despondent feet,

      A skull, one doubloon rattling in the skull.

      And when full autumn sets the dahlia stems

      On fire with flowers, and the chill dew turns

      The maple trees, above geranium urns,

      To Emir tents, and strings with flawless gems

      The moon-flower and the wahoo-bush that burns;

      Calmly she sees the year grow sad and strange,

      And stands with one among the wilted walks

      Of the old garden of the gray, old grange,

      And feels no sorrow for the frost-maimed stalks

      Since—though the wailing autumn to her talks—

      Youth marks swift spring on life’s far mountain-range.

      Or she will lean to her old harpsichord;

      A youthful face beside her; and the glow

      Of hickory on the hearth will balk the blow

      Of blustering rain that beats the casement hard;

      And sing of summer and so thwart the snow.

      “Haply, some day, she yet may sit alone,”

      He thinks, “within the shadow-saddened house,

      When round the gables stormy echoes moan,

      And in the closet gnaws the lonesome mouse;

      And Memory come stealing down the stair

      From dusty attics where is piled the Past—

      Like so much rubbish that we hate to keep—

      And turn the knob; and, framed in frosty hair,

      A grave, forgotten face look in at last,

      And she will know, and bow her head and weep.”

      That night, returning to the farm, we rode

      Before a storm. Uprolling from the west,

      Incessant with distending fire, loomed

      The multitudes of tempest: towering here

      A shadowy Shasta, there a cloudy Hood,

      Veined as with agonies, aurora-born,

      Of torrent gold; resplendent heaven to heaven,

      Far peak to peak, terrific spoke; the vast

      Sierras of the storm, within which beat

      The caverned thunder like a mighty stream:

      Vibrating on, with rushing wind and flame,

      Now th’ opening welkin shone, one livid sheet

      Of instantaneous gold, a giant’s forge,

      Wild-clanging; now, with streak on angled streak

      Of momentary light, a labyrinth

      Where shouting Darkness stalked with Titan torch:

      Again the firmament hung hewn with fire

      Whence leapt the thunder; and it seemed that hosts

      Of Heaven rushed to war with blazing shields

      And swords of splendor. And before the storm

      We galloped, while the frantic trees above

      Went wild with rain, through whose mad limbs and leaves

      Splashed black the first big drops. On, on we drove,

      And gained the gates, pillaring the avenue

      Of ancient beech, at whose far, flickering end,

      At last, beaconed the lights of home.

      And she?

      Was it the lightning that lent lividness

      And terror to her countenance? or fear

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