The marigold of memory Shall fill our autumn then with glow; Haply its bitterness will be Sweeter than love of long ago.
The cypress of forgetfulness Shall haunt our winter with its hue; The apathy to us not less Dear than the dreams our summer knew.
INDIAN SUMMER[44]
[From _Kentucky Poems_ (London, 1903)]
The dawn is warp of fever, The eve is woof of fire; And the month is a singing weaver Weaving a red desire.
With stars Dawn dices with Even For the rosy gold they heap On the blue of the day's deep heaven, On the black of the night's far deep.
It's--'Reins to the blood!' and 'Marry!'-- The season's a prince who burns With the teasing lusts that harry His heart for a wench who spurns.
It's--'Crown us a beaker with sherry, To drink to the doxy's heels; A tankard of wine o' the berry, To lips like a cloven peel's.
"S death! if a king be saddened, Right so let a fool laugh lies: But wine! when a king is gladdened, And a woman's waist and her eyes.'
He hath shattered the loom of the weaver, And left but a leaf that flits, He hath seized heaven's gold, and a fever Of mist and of frost is its.
He hath tippled the buxom beauty, And gotten her hug and her kiss-- The wide world's royal booty To pile at her feet for this.
HOME[45]
[From _Nature-Notes and Impressions_ (New York, 1906)]
A distant river glimpsed through deep-leaved trees.
A field of fragment flint, blue, gray, and red.
Rocks overgrown with twigs of trailing vines Thick-hung with clusters of the green wild-grape.
Old chestnut groves the haunt of drowsy cows, Full-uddered kine chewing a sleepy cud; Or, at the gate, around the dripping trough, Docile and lowing, waiting the milking-time.
Lanes where the wild-rose blooms, murmurous with bees, The bumble-bee tumbling their frowsy heads, Rumbling and raging in the bell-flower's bells, Drunken with honey, singing himself asleep.
Old in romance a shadowy belt of woods.
A house, wide-porched, before which sweeps a lawn Gray-boled with beeches and where elder blooms.
And on the lawn, whiter of hand than milk, And sweeter of breath than is the elder bloom, A woman with a wild-rose in her hair.
LOVE AND A DAY[46]
[From _The Poems of Madison Cawein_ (Indianapolis, 1907, v. ii)]
I
In girandoles and 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."
IN A SHADOW GARDEN[47]
[From _The Shadow Garden, and Other Plays_ (New York, 1910)]
Shadow of the Man: Elfins haunt these walks.
The place is most propitious and the time.-- See how they trip it!--There one rides a snail.
And here another teases at a bee.-- In spite of grief my soul could almost smile.-- Elfins! frail spirits of the Stars and Moon, 'Tis manifest to me 'tis you we see.-- We never knew, or cared, once.--Would we had!-- Our lives had proved less empty; and the joy, That comes with beautiful belief in everything That makes for childhood, had then touched us young And kept us young forever; young in heart-- The only youth man has. But man believes In only what he contacts; what he sees; Not what he feels most. Crass, material touch And vision are his all. The loveliness, That ambuscades him in his dreams and thoughts, Is merely portion of his thoughts and dreams And counts for nothing that he reckons real; But is, in fact, less insubstantial than The world he builds of matter-of-fact and stone.
That great inhuman world of evidence, Which doubts and scoffs and steadily grows old With what it christens wisdom.--Did it know, The wise are only they who keep their minds As little children's, innocent of doubt, Believing all things beautiful are true.
UNREQUITED[48]