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 | The poems of Madison Cawein |  |
114
IX
Hesits by the slowly dying fire. The storm is heard with increased violence:
Wild weather. The lash of the sleet
On the gusty casement, clapping—
The sound of the storm like a sheet
My soul and senses wrapping.
On the gusty casement, clapping—
The sound of the storm like a sheet
My soul and senses wrapping.
Wild weather. And how is she,
Now the rush of the rain falls serried
There on the turf and the tree
Of the place where she is buried?
Now the rush of the rain falls serried
There on the turf and the tree
Of the place where she is buried?
Wild weather. How black and deep
Is the night where the mad winds scurry!—
Do I sleep? do I dream in my sleep
That I hear her footsteps hurry?
Is the night where the mad winds scurry!—
Do I sleep? do I dream in my sleep
That I hear her footsteps hurry?
Hither they come like flowers—
And I see her raiment glisten,
Like the robes of one of the hours
Where the stars to the angels listen.
And I see her raiment glisten,
Like the robes of one of the hours
Where the stars to the angels listen.
Before me, behold, how she stands!
With lips high thoughts have weighted,
With testifying hands,
And eyes with glory sated.
With lips high thoughts have weighted,
With testifying hands,
And eyes with glory sated.
115
I have spoken and I have kneeled:
I have kissed her feet in wonder—
But, lo! her lips—they are sealed,
God-sealed, and will not sunder.
I have kissed her feet in wonder—
But, lo! her lips—they are sealed,
God-sealed, and will not sunder.
Though I sob, “Your stay was long!
You are come,—but your feet were laggard!—
With mansuetude and song
For the heart your death has daggered.”
You are come,—but your feet were laggard!—
With mansuetude and song
For the heart your death has daggered.”
Never a word replies,
Never, to all my weeping—
Only a sound of sighs,
And of raiment past me sweeping. ...
Never, to all my weeping—
Only a sound of sighs,
And of raiment past me sweeping. ...
I wake; and a clock tolls three—
And the night and the storm beat serried
There on the turf and the tree
Of the place where she is buried.
And the night and the storm beat serried
There on the turf and the tree
Of the place where she is buried.
| The poems of Madison Cawein | |