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

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      How fresh the purple clover

      Smells in its veil of rain!

      And where the leaves brim over

      How musky wild the lane!

      See, how the sodden acres,

      Forlorn of all their rakers,

      Their hay and harvest makers,

      Look green as spring again.

      Drops from the trumpet-flowers

      Rain on us as we pass;

      And every zephyr showers,

      From tilted leaf or grass,

      Clear beads of moisture, seeming

      Pale, pointed emeralds gleaming;

      Where, through the green boughs streaming,

      The daylight strikes like glass.

      How dewy, clean and fragrant

      Look now the green and gold!—

      And breezes, trailing vagrant,

      Spill all the spice they hold.

      The west begins to glimmer;

      And shadows, stretching slimmer,

      Make gray the ways; and dimmer

      Grow field and forest old.

      Beyond those rainy reaches

      Of woodland, far and lone,

      A whippoorwill beseeches;

      And now an owlet’s moan

      Drifts faint upon the hearing.—

      These say the dusk is nearing.

      And, see, the heavens, clearing,

      Take on a tender tone.

      How feebly chirps the cricket!

      How thin the tree-toads cry!

      Blurred in the wild-rose thicket

      Gleams wet the firefly.—

      This way toward home is nearest;

      Of weeds and briers clearest....

      We ’ll meet to-morrow, dearest;

      Till then, dear heart, good-by.

      Here at last! And do you know

      That again you ’ve kept me waiting?

      Wondering, anticipating

      That your “yes” meant “no.”

      Now you ’re here we ’ll have our day....

      Let us take this daisied hollow,

      And beneath these beeches follow

      This wild strip of way

      To the stream; wherein are seen

      Stealing gar and darting minnow;

      Over which snake-feeders winnow

      Wings of black and green.

      Like a cactus flames the sun;

      And the mighty weaver, Even,

      Tenuous colored, there in heaven,

      His rich weft ’s begun....

      How I love you! from the time—

      You remember, do you not?—

      When, within your orchard-plot,

      I was reading rhyme,

      As I told you. And ’t was thus:—

      “By the blue Trinacrian sea,

      Far in pastoral Sicily

      With Theocritus”—

      That I answered you who asked.

      But the curious part was this:—

      That the whole thing was amiss;

      That the Greek but masked

      Tales of old Boccaccio:

      Tall Decameronian maids

      Strolled for me among the glades,

      Smiling, sweet and slow.

      And when you approached,—my book

      Dropped in wonder,—seemingly

      To myself I said, “’Tis she!”

      And arose to look

      In Lauretta’s eyes and—true!

      Found them yours.—You shook your head,

      Laughing at me, as you said,

      “Did I frighten you?”

      You had come for cherries; these

      Coatless then I climbed for while

      You still questioned with a smile,

      And still tried to tease.

      Ah, love, just two years have gone

      Since then.... I remember, you

      Wore a dress of billowy blue

      Muslin.—Was it “lawn”?—

      And your apron still I see—

      All its whiteness cherry-stained—

      Which you held; wherein I rained

      Ripeness from the tree.

      And I asked you—for, you know,

      To my eyes your serious eyes

      Said such deep philosophies—

      If you ’d read Rousseau.

      You remember how a chance,

      Somewhat like to mine, one June

      Happened him at castle Toune,

      Over there in France?

      And a cherry dropping fair

      On your cheek, I, envying it,

      Cried—remembering Rousseau’s wit—

      “Would my lips were there!” …

      Here we are at last. We ’ll row

      Down the stream.—The west has narrowed

      To one streak of rose, deep-arrowed.—

      There ’s our skiff below.

      Waters flowing dark and bright

      In the sunlight or the moon,

      Fill my soul with such delight

      As some visible music might;

      As some slow, majestic tune

      Made material to the sight.

      Blossoms colored like the skies,

      Sunset-hued and tame or wild,

      Fill my soul with such surmise

      As the mind might realize

      If one’s thoughts, all undefiled,

      Should take form before the eyes.

      So to me do these appeal;

      So they sway me every hour:

      Letting all their beauty steal

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