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 | The poems of Madison Cawein |  |
XIII
They reënter the garden. She speaks somewhat pensively:
Myths tell of walls and cities, lyred of love,
That rose to music.—Were that power my own,
Had I that harp, that magic barbiton,
What had I builded for our lives thereof?—
That rose to music.—Were that power my own,
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What had I builded for our lives thereof?—
In docile shadows under bluebell skies,
A home upon the poppied edge of eve,
Beneath pale peaks the splendors never leave,
'Mid lemon orchards whence the egret flies.
A home upon the poppied edge of eve,
Beneath pale peaks the splendors never leave,
'Mid lemon orchards whence the egret flies.
Where, pitiless, the ruined hand of death
Should never reach. No bud, no flower fade:
Where all were perfect, pure and unafraid:
And life serener than an angel's breath.
Should never reach. No bud, no flower fade:
Where all were perfect, pure and unafraid:
And life serener than an angel's breath.
The days should move to music: song should tame
The nights, attentive with their listening stars:
And morn outrival eve in opal bars,
Each preaching beauty with rose-tongues of flame.
The nights, attentive with their listening stars:
And morn outrival eve in opal bars,
Each preaching beauty with rose-tongues of flame.
O home! O life! desired and to be!
How shall we reach you?—Far the way and dim.—
Give me your hand, sweet! let us follow him,
Love with the madness and the melody.
How shall we reach you?—Far the way and dim.—
Give me your hand, sweet! let us follow him,
Love with the madness and the melody.
| The poems of Madison Cawein | |