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

THE SIRENS

 
Wail! wail! and smite your lyres’ sonorous gold,
And beckon naked beauty; luring me
With arms and breasts and hips of godly mold,
Dark, wind-wild locks seen through the surf-blown sea!
 
 
Vain all your magic! dull in unclosed ears!
Beside one voice sweet-calling o’er the foam,
That, in my heart, like some strong hand appears
To gently, firmly draw my vessel home.
 

WHY?

 
Why are the bright stars brighter after rain?
Why is strong love the stronger after pain?
Reply, reply!
 
 
Why sings the wild swan heavenliest when it dies?
Why is fair love the fairest when it flies?
Oh why! Oh why!
 
 
Why are sweet kisses sweetest when they’re dead?
Why is love loveliest when ’tis buriéd?
Reply, reply!
 

NOCTURNE

 
A disc of violet blue,
Rimmed with a thorn of fire,
The new moon hangs in a sky of dew;
And under the vines, where the sunset’s hue
Is blent with blooms, first one, then two,
Begins the crickets’ choir.
 
 
Bright blurs of golden white,
With points of pearly glimmer,
The first stars wink in the web of night;
And through the flowers the moths take flight,
In the honeysuckle-colored light,
Where the shadowy shrubs grow dimmer.
 
 
Soft through the dim and dying eve,
Sweet through the dusk and dew,
Come, while the hours their witchcraft weave,
Dim in the House of the Soul’s-sweet-leave,
Here in the pale and perfumed eve,
Here where I wait for you.
 
 
A great, dark, radiant rose,
Dripping with starry glower,
Is the night, whose bosom overflows
With the balsam musk of the breeze that blows
Into the heart, as each one knows,
Of every nodding flower.
 
 
A voice that sighs and sighs,
Then whispers like a spirit,
Is the wind, that kisses the drowsy eyes
Of the primrose open, and, rocking, lies
In the lily’s cradle, and soft unties
The rose-bud’s crimson near it.
 
 
Sweet through the deep and dreaming night,
Soft through the dark and dew,
Come, where the moments their magic write,
Deep in the Book of the Heart’s-delight,
Here in the hushed and haunted night,
Here where I wait for you.
 

METAMORPHOSIS

 
Before Love’s lofty goddess—Life hath toiled
To mold from burning dew and dewy fire—
Who kneel and worship with a heart sin-soiled,
Within the secret Temple of Desire;
 
 
Their curse is such: that, even while they pray,—
They shall not see, nor shall they know thereof!—
Their Deity is changed from fire to clay—
Lust! fashioned in the very form of Love.
 

AT TWENTY-ONE

 
The rosy hills of her high breasts,
Whereon, like misty morning, rests
The breathing lace; her auburn hair,
Wherein, a star-point sparkling there,
One jewel burns: her eyes, that keep
Recorded dreams of love and sleep:
Her mouth, with whose comparison
The richest rose were poor and wan:
Her throat, her form—what masterpiece
Of man can picture half of these!—
She comes! a classic from the hand
Of God! wherethrough I understand
What Nature means and Art and Love,
And all the immortal myths thereof.
 

KINSHIP

 
There is no flower of wood or lea,
No April flower, as fair as she:
O white anemone, who hast
The wind’s wild grace,
Know her a cousin of thy race,
Into whose face
A presence like the wind’s hath passed.
 
 
There is no flower of wood or lea,
No May-day flower, as fair as she:
O bluebell, tender with the blue
Of sapphire skies,
Thy lineage hath kindred ties
In her, whose eyes
The heaven’s own qualities imbue.
 
 
There is no flower of wood or lea,
No June-time flower, as fair as she:
Rose,—odorous with beauty of
Her lips that pressed,—
Behold thy sister here confessed!
Whose maiden breast
Is fragrant with the dreams of love.
 

“SHE IS SO MUCH”

 
She is so much to me, to me,
And, oh, I love her so,
I look into my soul and see
How comfort keeps me company
In hopes she, too, may know.
I love her, I love her, I love her,
This I know.
 
 
So dear she is to me, so dear,
And, oh, I love her so,
I listen in my heart and hear
The voice of gladness singing near
In thoughts she, too, may know.
I love her, I love her, I love her,
This I know.
 
 
So much she is to me, so much,
And, oh, I love her so,
In heart and soul I feel the touch
Of angel callers, that are such
Dreams as she, too, may know.
I love her, I love her, I love her,
This I know.
 

HER EYES

 
In her dark eyes dreams poetize;
The soul sits lost in love:
There is no thing in all the skies,
To gladden all the world I prize,
Like the deep love in her dark eyes,
Or one sweet dream thereof.
 
 
In her dark eyes, where thoughts arise,
Her soul’s soft moods I see:
Of hope and faith, that make life wise;
And charity, whose food is sighs—
Not truer than her own true eyes
Is truth’s divinity.
 
 
In her dark eyes the knowledge lies
Of an immortal sod,
Her soul once trod in angel guise,
Nor can forget its heavenly ties,
Since, there in Heaven, upon her eyes
Once gazed the eyes of God.
 

MESSENGERS

 
The wind, that gives the rose a kiss,
With murmured music of the south,
Hath kissed a sweeter thing than this;—
The wind, that gives the rose a kiss,—
Hath kissed the red rose of her mouth.
 
 
The brook, that mirrors skies and trees,
And echoes in a grottoed place,
Hath held a fairer thing than these;—
The brook, that mirrors skies and trees,
Hath held the image of her face.
 
 
O happy wind! O happy brook!
What message from her do you bear?—
“We bear from her her kiss and look—”
O happy wind! O happy brook!—
“That blessed us unaware.”
 

APART

I

 
While sunset burns and stars are few,
And roses scent the fading light;
And, like a slim urn, dripping dew,
A spirit carries through the night,
The pearl-pale moon hangs new,—
I think of you, of you.
 

II

 
While waters flow, and soft winds woo
The golden-hearted bud with sighs;
And, like a flower an angel threw,
Out of the momentary skies
A star falls, burning blue,—
I dream of you, of you.
 

III

 
While love believes and hearts are true,
So let me think, so let me dream;
The thought and dream so wedded to
Your face, that, far apart, I seem
To see each thing you do,
And be with you, with you.
 

THE BLIND GOD

 
I know not if she be unkind;
If she have faults, I do not care.
Search through the world—where will you find
A face like hers, a form, a mind?—
I love her to despair!
 
 
If she be cruel, cruelty
Is a great virtue, I will swear:
If she be proud, then pride must be
Better than all humility.—
I love her to despair!
 
 
Why speak to me of that or this?
All you may say weighs not a hair!
To me, naught but perfection is
In her, whose lips I may not kiss!—
I love her to despair!
 

CARA MIA

I

 
Sweet lips, where kisses sleep,
Soft eyes, so filled with dreams,
Waken, oh waken!
Open your blossoms deep,
Sweet lips, where kisses sleep:
Unfold your brightest beams,
Soft eyes, so filled with dreams:
Waken, oh, waken!
 

II

 
Sweet lips, that give perfume,
Soft eyes, that kindle light,
Come, let me kiss you!—
To every flower in bloom,
Sweet lips, you lend perfume!
In every star at night,
Soft eyes, you kindle light!—
Come, let me kiss you!
 

III

 
Who would not love to rest?
Who would not love to lie?
Who would not love them?
Of such sweet flowers caressed,
Who would not love to rest?
With such stars in their sky,
Who would not love to lie?
Who would not love them?
 

MARGERY

I

 
When spring is here and Margery
Goes walking in the woods with me,
She is so white, she is so shy,
The little leaves clap hands and cry—
“Perdie;
So white is she, so shy is she,
Ah me!
The maiden May hath just passed by!”
 

II

 
When summer ’s here and Margery
Goes walking in the fields with me,
She is so pure, she is so fair,
The wildflowers eye her and declare—
“Perdie!
So pure is she, so fair is she,
Just see,
Where our sweet cousin takes the air!”
 

III

 
Why is it that my Margery
Hears nothing that these say to me?
She is so good, she is so true,
My heart it maketh such ado,
Perdie!
So good is she, so true is she,
You see,
She can not hear the other two.
 

CONSTANCE

 
Beyond the orchard, in the lane,
The crested red-bird sings again—
O bird, whose song says, “Have no care,”
Should I not care when Constance there,—
My Constance with the bashful gaze,
Pink-gowned like some sweet hollyhock,—
If I declare my love, just says
Some careless thing as if in mock?
Like—“Past the orchard, in the lane,
Hark! how the red-bird sings again!”
 
 
There, while the red-bird sings his best,
His listening mate sits on the nest—
O bird, whose patience says, “All ’s well,”
How can it be with me, come, tell?
When Constance, with averted eyes,—
Soft-bonneted as some sweet-pea,—
If I talk marriage, just replies
With some such quaint irrelevancy,
As, “While the red-bird sings his best,
His loving mate sits on the nest.”
 
 
What shall I say? what can I do?
Would such replies mean aught to you,
O birds, whose music says, “Be glad”?
Have I not reason to be sad
When Constance, with demurest glance,
Her face all poppied with distress,
If I reproach her, pouts, perchance,
And answers thus in waywardness?—
“What shall I say? what can I do?
My meaning should be plain to you!”
 

LYDIA

 
When Autumn’s here and days are short,
Let Lydia laugh and, hey!
Straightway ’t is May-day in my heart,
And blossoms strew the way.
 
 
When Summer ’s here and days are long,
Let Lydia sigh and, ho!
December’s fields I walk among,
And shiver in the snow.
 
 
No matter what the seasons are,
My Lydia is so dear,
My heart admits no calendar
Of Earth when she is near.
 

HELEN

 
Heaped in raven loops and masses
Over temples smooth and fair,
Have you marked it, as she passes,
Night and starlight mingled there,—
Braided strands of midnight air,—
Helen’s hair?
 
 
Deep with dreams and moony mazes
Of the thought that in them lies,
Have you seen them, as she raises
Them in question or surprise,—
Two gray gleams of daybreak skies,—
Helen’s eyes?
 
 
Fresh as dew and honied wafters
Of a music sweet that slips,
Have you marked them, brimmed with laughter’s
Song and sunshine to their tips,—
Blossoms whence the perfume drips,—
Helen’s lips?
 
 
He who sees her needs must love her:
But, beware, whoe’er thou art!
Lest like me thou shouldst discover
Nature overlooked one part,
In this masterpiece of art—
Helen’s heart.
 

MIGNON

 
Oh, Mignon’s mouth is like a rose,
A red, red rose, that half uncurls
Sweet petals o’er a crimson bee:
Or like a shell, that, opening, shows
Within its rosy curve white pearls,
White rows of pearls,
Is Mignon’s mouth that smiles at me.
 
 
Oh, Mignon’s eyes are like blue gems,
Two azure gems that gleam and glow,
Soft sapphires set in ivory:
Or like twin violets, whose stems
Bloom blue beneath the covering snow,
The lidded snow,
Are Mignon’s eyes that laugh at me.
 
 
O mouth of Mignon, Mignon’s eyes!
O eyes of violet, mouth of fire!—
Within which lies all ecstasy
Of tears and kisses and of sighs:—
O mouth, O eyes, and O desire,
O love’s desire,
Have mercy on the soul of me!
 

TRANSUBSTANTIATION

I

 
A sunbeam and a drop of dew
Lay on a red rose in the South:
God took the three and made her mouth,
Her sweet, small mouth,
So red of hue,—
The burning baptism of His kiss
Still fills my heart with heavenly bliss.
 

II

 
A dream of truth and love come true
Slept on a star in daybreak skies:
God mingled these and made her eyes,
Her dear, clear eyes,
So gray of hue,—
The high communion of His gaze
Still fills my soul with deep amaze.
 

LOVE AND A DAY

I

 
In girandoles of gladioles
The day had kindled flame;
And Heaven a door of gold and pearl
Unclosed, whence Morning,—like a girl,
A red rose twisted in a curl,—
Down sapphire stairways came.
 
 
Said I to Love: “What must I do?
What shall I do? what can I do?”
Said I to Love: “What must I do,
All on a summer’s morning?”
 
 
Said Love to me: “Go woo, go woo.”
Said Love to me: “Go woo.
If she be milking, follow, O!
And in the clover hollow, O!
While through the dew the bells clang clear,
Just whisper it into her ear,
All on a summer’s morning.”
 

II

 
Of honey and heat and weed and wheat
The day had made perfume;
And Heaven a tower of turquoise raised,
Whence Noon, like some pale woman, gazed—
A sunflower withering at her waist—
Within a crystal room.
 
 
Said I to Love: “What must I do?
What shall I do? what can I do?”
Said I to Love: “What must I do,
All in the summer nooning?”
 
 
Said Love to me: “Go woo, go woo.”
Said Love to me: “Go woo.
If she be ’mid the rakers, O!
Among the harvest acres, O!
While every breeze brings scents of hay,
Just hold her hand and not take ‘nay,’
All in the summer nooning.”
 

III

 
With song and sigh and cricket cry
The day had mingled rest;
And Heaven a casement opened wide
Of opal, whence, like some young bride,
The Twilight leaned, all starry eyed,
A moonflower on her breast.
 
 
Said I to Love: “What must I do?
What shall I do? what can I do?”
Said I to Love: “What must I do,
All in the summer gloaming?”
 
 
Said Love to me: “Go woo, go woo.”
Said Love to me: “Go woo,
Go meet her at the trysting, O!
And ’spite of her resisting, O!
Beneath the stars and afterglow,
Just clasp her close and kiss her—so,
All in the summer gloaming.”
 

LOVE IN A GARDEN

I

 
Between the rose’s and the canna’s crimson,
Beneath thy window in the night I stand;
The jeweled dew hangs little stars, in rims, on
The white moonflowers; each a spirit hand
That points the path to mystic Shadowland.
 
 
Awaken, sweet and fair!
And add to night thy grace!
Suffer its loveliness to share
The white moon of thy face,
The dark cloud of thy hair.
Awaken, sweet and fair!
 

II

 
A moth, like down, swings on th’ althea’s pistil,—
Ghost of a tone that haunts its bell’s deep dome;—
And in the August-lily’s cone of crystal
A firefly hangs the lantern of a gnome,
Green as a gem that gleams through hollow foam.
 
 
Approach! the moment flies!
O sweetheart of the South!
Come! mingle with night’s mysteries
The red rose of thy mouth,
The dark stars of thine eyes.—
Approach! the moment flies!
 

III

 
Dim through the dusk, like some unearthly presence,
The night-song silvers of a dreaming bird;
And with it borne, faint on a breeze-blown essence,
The rainy whisper of a fountain’s heard—
As if young lips had breathed a perfumed word.
 
 
How long, my love, my bliss!
How long must I await
With night—that all impatience is—
Thy greeting at the gate,
And at the gate thy kiss?
How long, my love, my bliss!
 

FLORIDIAN

I

 
The cactus and the aloe bloom
Beneath the window of your room;
That window where, at evenfall,
Beneath the twilight’s first pale star,
You linger, tall and spiritual,
And hearken my guitar.
 
 
It is the hour
When every flower
Is wooed of moth or bee—
Would, would you were the flower, dear,
And I the moth to draw you near,
To draw you near to me,
My dear,
To draw you near to me!
 

II

 
The jasmine and bignonia spill
Their balm about your windowsill;
That sill where, when magnolia-white,
In foliage mists, the moon hangs far,
You lean with bright deep eyes of night,
And hearken my guitar.
 
 
It is the hour
When from each flower
The wind woos essences—
Would, would you were the flower, love,
And I the wind to breathe above,
To breathe above and kiss,
My love,
To breathe above and kiss!
 

WHEN SHIPS PUT OUT TO SEA

I

 
It’s “Sweet, good-by,” when pennants fly
And ships put out to sea;
It ’s a loving kiss, and a tear or two
In an eye of brown or an eye of blue:—
And you’ll remember me,
Sweetheart,
And you’ll remember me.
 

II

 
It’s “Friend or foe?” when signals blow
And ships sight ships at sea;
It’s “Clear for action! and man the guns!”
As the battle nears and the battle runs;—
And you’ll remember me,
Sweetheart,
And you’ll remember me.
 

III

 
It’s deck to deck, and wrath and wreck,
When ships meet ships at sea;
It’s scream of shot and shriek of shell,
And hull and turret a roaring hell;—
And you’ll remember me,
Sweetheart,
And you’ll remember me.
 

IV

 
It’s doom and death, and pause a breath,
When ships go down at sea;
It’s hate is over and love begins,
And war is cruel whoever wins;—
And you’ll remember me,
Sweetheart,
And you’ll remember me.
 

A CHRISTMAS CATCH

 
When roads are mired with ice and snow,
And the air of morn is crisp with rime;
When the holly hangs by the mistletoe,
And bells ring in the Christmas-time:—
It’s—Saddle, my Heart! and ride away
To the sweet-faced girl with eyes of gray!
Who waits with a smile for the gifts you bring—
A man’s strong love and a wedding-ring—
It’s—Saddle, my Heart, and ride!
 
 
When vanes veer north and storm-winds blow,
And the sun at noon is a blur o’erhead;
When the holly hangs by the mistletoe,
And the Christmas service is sung and said:—
It’s—Come, O my Heart, and wait a while,
Where the organ peals, in the altar aisle,
For the gifts that the church now gives to you—
A woman’s hand and a heart that’s true.
It’s—Come, O my Heart, and wait!
 
 
When rooms gleam warm with the fire’s glow,
And the sleet raps sharp on the window-pane:
When the holly hangs by the mistletoe,
And Christmas revels begin again:—
It’s—Home, O my Heart, and love, at last!
And her happy breast to your own held fast:
A song to sing and a tale to tell,
A good-night kiss and all is well.
It’s—Home, O my Heart, and love!
 

A SONG FOR YULE

I

 
Sing, Hey, when the time rolls round this way,
And bells peal out, ’Tis Christmas Day!
The world is better then by half,
For joy, for joy:
In a little while you will see it laugh—
For a song’s to sing and a glass to quaff,
My boy; my boy.
So here ’s to the man who never says nay!—
Sing, Hey, a song of Christmas Day!
 

II

 
Sing, Ho, when roofs are white with snow,
And homes are hung with mistletoe:
Old Earth is not half bad, I wis—
What cheer! what cheer!
How it ever seemed sad the wonder is—
With a gift to give and a girl to kiss,
My dear; my dear.
So here ’s to the girl who never says no!
Sing, Ho, a song of the mistletoe!
 

III

 
No thing in the world to the heart seems wrong
When the soul of a man walks out with song;
Wherever they go, glad hand in hand,
And glove in glove,
The round of the land is rainbow-spanned,
And the meaning of life they understand
Is love; is love.
Let the heart be open, the soul be strong,
And life will be glad as a Christmas song.
 

CHORDS

I

 
When love delays, when love delays and joy
Steals like a shadow o’er the happy hills;
When hope is gone; and no to-morrow fills
The promise of to-day; still I employ
My soul with thoughts of thee,
Who ’rt not for me, for me!
 
 
When love delays, when love delays and song
Aches at wild lips, unutterable, as the sound
Of ocean strives, within the shell’s mouth bound;
And hope is gone for ever, slain of wrong;
Still in my heart one word
Keeps calling like a bird.
 
 
When love delays, when love delays and sleep
Seals tired eyelids,—like the sound of foam,
Heard ’mid familiar flowers far from home,—
When hope lies dead; in dreams, in dreams I keep
Feeling thy lips’ sweet touch,—
And, oh! it is too much!
 
 
When love delays, when love delays and sorrow
Drinks her own tears that add but to her thirst;
When song and sleep and love itself seem curst,
And hope lies dead; still, still I dream to-morrow
Will bring some word of cheer
From thee who art not here.
 
 
Will love delay, will love delay till death
Hath sealed these lips and locked these eyes in night?
Till unto love and hate indifferent quite
This form shall lie? Then wilt thou, wild of breath,
Bend down and kiss me there
When I no more shall care?
 

II

 
If thou wouldst know the Beautiful that breathes
And beckons through the World, far must thou seek!…
She is no shadow wreathed with hemlock wreaths;
No drowsy sorrow whose wan eyes are weak
With melancholy vigils; and no shade
Of tragic sin of the sweet sun afraid:
No tearful anger torn of truthless love,
Who stabs her sick heart to the dagger’s hilt
For vengeance sweet; no miser mood, or maid,
In owlet towers!—Nay! she sings above
On morning meads ’mid flowers that never wilt.
 
 
If thou dost seek the Beautiful, beware!
Lest thou discover her, nor know ’tis she;
And she enslave thee to thy heart’s despair,
And fill thy soul with yearning, utterly,
For that wild-rose which is her mouth, that brings
Dew-odors of the dawn; for those twin springs
Of light, her eyes; the bloom of her white brow,
O’er which the foliage of her dark hair lies:
The melody which is her heart, that sings
The poetry of love, to which all bow,
Both gods and men, the love that never dies.
 
 
Lost art thou then, lost as the first lone star
Set in the splendor of the sunset’s wave;
Lost in thy loneliness of searching far,
Striving to clasp her, evermore her slave:
Lost—gladly lost! a devotee to her
Who, in the end, perhaps may let thee share
A portion of her bliss, her heritage
Of happiness in the same way and wise
As woods and waters share it.—Then prepare
Thy soul,—made perfect,—for its final wage,
Her kiss, whose touch shall apotheosize.
 

III

 
Now that the orchard’s leaves are sere,
And drip with rain instead of dew,
No moon-bright fruit hangs moon-like here,
And dead your long white lilies too,—
And dead the heart that broke for you:
 
 
How comes the dim touch of your arm?
Your faint lips on my feverish cheek?
Your eyes near mine? deep as a charm,
And gray, so gray! till I am weak,
Weak with wild tears and can not speak.
 
 
I am as one who walks in dreams;
Sees, as in youth, his father’s home;
Hears from his native mountain streams
Far music of continual foam,
And one sweet voice that bids him come.