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

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      Sleep, sleep, sweet sleep sleeps at the drifting tiller,

      And in our sail the Spirit of the Rain—

      Love, love, my love, ah, bid thy heart be stiller,

      And, hark! the music of the singing main.

      What flowers are those that blow their balm unto us,

      From mouths of wild aroma, each a flame?—

      Or is it Love that breathes? sweet Love who drew us,

      Who kissed our eyes and made us see the same?

      Dreams; dreams we dream! no dream that we would banish!

      The temple and the nightingale are there!

      Our love hath made them, nevermore to vanish,

      Real as yon moon, this wild-rose in your hair.

      Night, night, ’tis night!—and Love’s own star ’s before us,

      Its starred reflection in the starry stream.—

      Yes, yes, ah yes! his presence shall watch o’er us,

      To-night, to-night, and every night we dream.

      Behold the offerings of the common hills!

      Whose lowly names have made them three times dear:

      One evening-primrose and an apron-full

      Of violets; and there, in multitudes,

      Dim-seen in moonlight, sweet cerulean wan,

      The bluet, making heaven of every dell

      With morn’s ambrosial blue: dew-dropping plumes

      Of the mauve beard’s-tongue; and the red-freaked cups

      Of blackberry-lilies all along the creek,

      Where, lulled, the freckled silence sleeps, and vague

      The water flows, when, at high noon, the cows

      Wade knee-deep, and the heat is honied with

      The drone of drowsy bees and dizzy flies.

      How bright the moon is on that fleur-de-lis;

      Blue, streaked with crystal like a summer day:

      And is it moonlight there? or is it flowers?

      White violets? lilies? or a daisy bed?

      And now the wind, with softest lullaby,

      Swings all their cradled heads and rocks-to-sleep

      Their fragrant faces and their golden eyes,

      Curtained, and frailly wimpled with the dew.

      Simple suggestions of a life most fair!

      Flowers, you speak of love and untaught faith,

      Whose habitation is within the soul,

      Not of the Earth, yet for the Earth indeed....

      What is it halcyons my heart? makes calm,

      With calmness not of knowledge, all my soul

      This night of nights?—Is ’t love? or faith? or both?—

      The lore of all the world is less than these

      Simple suggestions of a life most fair,

      And love most sweet that I have learned to know!

      Yes, I have known its being so;

      Long ago was I seeing so—

      Beckoning on to a fairer land,

      Out of the flowers it waved its hand;

      Bidding me on to life and love,

      Life with the hope of the love thereof.

      What is the value of knowing it,

      If you are shy in showing it?—

      Need of the earth unfolds the flower,

      Dewy sweet, at the proper hour;

      And, in the world of the human heart,

      Love is the flower’s counterpart.

      So when the soul is heedable,

      Then is the heart made readable.—

      I in the book of your heart have read

      Words that are truer than truth hath said:

      Measures of love, the spirit’s song,

      Writ of your soul to haunt me long.

      Love can hear each laudable

      Thought of the loved made audible,

      Spoken in wonder, or joy, or pain,

      And reëcho it back again:

      Ever responsive, ever awake,

      Ever replying with ache for ache.

      Earth gives its flowers to us

      And heaven its stars. Indeed,

      These are as lips that woo us,

      Those are as lights that lead,

      With love that doth pursue us,

      With hope that still doth speed.

      Yet shall the flowers lie riven,

      And lips forget to kiss;

      The stars fade out of heaven,

      And lights lead us amiss—

      As love for which we ’ve striven;

      As hope that promises.

      If love I have had of you, you had of me,

      Then doubtless our loving were over;

      One would be less than the other, you see;

      Since what you returned to your lover

      Were only his own; and—

      But if I lose you, if you part with me,

      I will not love you less

      Loving so much now. If there is to be

      A parting and distress,—

      What will avail to comfort or relieve

      The soul that’s anguished most?—

      The knowledge that it once possessed, perceive,

      The love that it has lost.

      You must acknowledge, under sun and moon

      All that we feel is old;

      Let morning flutter from night’s brown cocoon

      Wide wings of flaxen gold;

      The moon burst through the darkness, soaring o’er,

      Like some great moth and white,

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