Madison Cawein

  • From “Myth and Romance”
    THERE is no rhyme that is half so sweet
    As the song of the wind in the rippling wheat;
    There is no metre that ’s half so fine
    As the lilt of the brook under rock and vine;
    And the loveliest lyric I ever heard
    Was the wildwood...

  • What shall her silence keep
    Under the sun?
    Here, where the willows weep
    And waters run;
    Here, where she lies asleep,
    And all is done.

    Lights, when the tree-top swings;
    Scents that are sown;
    Sounds of the wood-bird’s wings;...

  • The song-birds? are they flown away?
      The song-birds of the summer-time,
    That sang their souls into the day,
      And set the laughing days to rhyme?—
    No catbird scatters through the hush
      The sparkling crystals of its song;
    Within the woods no...

  • With eyes hand-arched he looks into
    The morning’s face, then turns away
    With schoolboy feet, all wet with dew,
    Out for a holiday.

    The hill brook sings, incessant stars,
    Foam-fashioned, on its restless breast;
    And where he wades its water-bars...

  • The wind IN THE PINES
    WHEN winds go organing through the pines
    On hill and headland, darkly gleaming,
    Meseems I hear sonorous lines
    Of Iliads that the woods are dreaming.

    OPPORTUNITY
    BEHOLD a hag whom Life denies a kiss
    As he rides...

  • We have sent him seeds of the melon’s core,
    And nailed a warning upon his door;
    By the Ku Klux laws we can do no more.

    Down in the hollow, mid crib and stack,
    The roof of his low-porched house looks black,
    Not a line of light at the doorsill’s crack....

  • Calling, the heron flies athwart the blue
    That sleeps above it; reach on rocky reach
    Of water sings by sycamore and beech,
    In whose warm shade bloom lilies not a few.
    It is a page whereon the sun and dew
    Scrawl sparkling words in dawn’s delicious speech;...

  • An heritage of hopes and fears
    And dreams and memory,
    And vices of ten thousand years
    God gives to thee.

    A house of clay, the home of Fate,
    Haunted of Love and Sin,
    Where Death stands knocking at the gate
    To let him in.

  • Through some strange sense of sight or touch
    I find what all have found before,
    The presence I have feared so much,
    The unknown’s immaterial door.

    I seek not and it comes to me;
    The do not know the thing I find:
    The fillet of fatality
    ...

  • Teach me the secret of thy loveliness,
      That, being made wise, I may aspire to be
    As beautiful in thought, and so express
      Immortal truths to earth’s mortality;
    Though to my soul ability be less
      Than ’t is to thee, O sweet anemone.

    Teach me...