The Garden of Dreams. Madison Julius Cawein

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СКАЧАТЬ style="font-size:15px;">       Nor the circle, which thou once didst darken,

       Shine with footsteps of the neighboring moonlight,

       Visitors for whom thou oft didst hearken.

      Nevermore, gallooned with cloudy laces,

       Shall the morning, like a fair freebooter,

       Make thy leaves his richest treasure-places;

       Nor the sunset, like a royal suitor,

       Clothe thy limbs with his imperial graces.

      And no more, between the savage wonder

       Of the sunset and the moon's up-coming,

       Shall the storm, with boisterous hoof-beats, under

       Thy dark roof dance, Faun-like, to the humming

       Of the Pan-pipes of the rain and thunder.

      Oft the satyr spirit, beauty-drunken,

       Of the Spring called; and the music-measure

       Of thy sap made answer; and thy sunken

       Veins grew vehement with youth, whose pressure

       Swelled thy gnarly muscles, winter-shrunken.

      And the germs, deep down in darkness rooted,

       Bubbled green from all thy million oilets,

       Where the spirits, rain-and-sunbeam-suited,

       Of the April made their whispering toilets,

       Or within thy stately shadow footed.

      Oft the hours of blonde Summer tinkled

       At the windows of thy twigs, and found thee

       Bird-blithe; or, with shapely bodies, twinkled

       Lissom feet of naked flowers around thee,

       Where thy mats of moss lay sunbeam-sprinkled.

      And the Autumn with his gipsy-coated

       Troop of days beneath thy branches rested,

       Swarthy-faced and dark of eye; and throated

       Songs of hunting; or with red hand tested

       Every nut-bur that above him floated.

      Then the Winter, barren-browed, but rich in

       Shaggy followers of frost and freezing,

       Made the floor of thy broad boughs his kitchen,

       Trapper-like, to camp in; grimly easing

       Limbs snow-furred and moccasoned with lichen.

      Now, alas! no more do these invest thee

       With the dignity of whilom gladness!

       They—unto whose hearts thou once confessed thee

       Of thy dreams—now know thee not! and sadness

       Sits beside thee where forgot dost rest thee.

THE HAUNTED WOODLAND

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      Here in the golden darkness

       And green night of the woods,

       A flitting form I follow,

       A shadow that eludes—

       Or is it but the phantom

       Of former forest moods?

      The phantom of some fancy

       I knew when I was young,

       And in my dreaming boyhood,

       The wildwood flow'rs among,

       Young face to face with Faery

       Spoke in no unknown tongue.

      Blue were her eyes, and golden

       The nimbus of her hair;

       And crimson as a flower

       Her mouth that kissed me there;

       That kissed and bade me follow,

       And smiled away my care.

      A magic and a marvel

       Lived in her word and look,

       As down among the blossoms

       She sate me by the brook,

       And read me wonder-legends

       In Nature's Story Book.

      Loved fairy-tales forgotten,

       She never reads again,

       Of beautiful enchantments

       That haunt the sun and rain,

       And, in the wind and water,

       Chant a mysterious strain.

      And so I search the forest,

       Wherein my spirit feels,

       In tree or stream or flower

       Herself she still conceals—

       But now she flies who followed,

       Whom Earth no more reveals.

DISCOVERY

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      What is it now that I shall seek,

       Where woods dip downward, in the hills?—

       A mossy nook, a ferny creek,

       And May among the daffodils.

      Or in the valley's vistaed glow,

       Past rocks of terraced trumpet-vines,

       Shall I behold her coming slow,

       Sweet May, among the columbines?

      With redbud cheeks and bluet eyes,

       Big eyes, the homes of happiness,

       To meet me with the old surprise,

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