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 | The poems of Madison Cawein |  |
XVII
Shetarries at the gate a moment, watching him disappear down the lane. He sings, and the sound of his singing grows fainter and fainter and at last dies away in the distance:
Say, my heart, O my heart,
These be the eves for speaking!
There is no wight will work us spite
Beneath the sunset's streaking.
These be the eves for speaking!
There is no wight will work us spite
Beneath the sunset's streaking.
Yes, my sweet, O my sweet,
Now is the time for telling!
To walk together in starry weather
Down lanes with elder smelling.
Now is the time for telling!
51
Down lanes with elder smelling.
O my heart, yes, my heart,
Now is the time for saying!
When lost in dreams each wildflower seems
And every blossom praying.
Now is the time for saying!
When lost in dreams each wildflower seems
And every blossom praying.
Lean, my sweet, listen, sweet,—
No sweeter time than this is,—
So says the rose, the moth that knows,—
To take sweet toll in kisses.
No sweeter time than this is,—
So says the rose, the moth that knows,—
To take sweet toll in kisses.
| The poems of Madison Cawein | |