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 | The poems of Madison Cawein |  |
XIV
Nearing her home, he speaks:
True, true!—Perhaps it would be best
To be that lone star in the west;
Above the earth, within the skies,
Yet shining here in your blue eyes.
To be that lone star in the west;
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Yet shining here in your blue eyes.
Or, haply, better here to blow
A flower beneath your window low;
That, brief of life and frail and fair,
Finds yet a heaven in your hair.
A flower beneath your window low;
That, brief of life and frail and fair,
Finds yet a heaven in your hair.
Or well, perhaps, to be the breeze
That sighs its soul out to the trees;
A voice, a breath of rain or drouth,
That has its wild will with your mouth.
That sighs its soul out to the trees;
A voice, a breath of rain or drouth,
That has its wild will with your mouth.
These things I long to be. I long
To be the burthen of some song
You love to sing; a melody,
Sure of sweet immortality.
To be the burthen of some song
You love to sing; a melody,
Sure of sweet immortality.
| The poems of Madison Cawein | |