 | New poems by Madison Cawein |  |
68
HYLAS
The cuckoo-sorrel paints with pink
The green page of the meadow-land
Around a pool where thrushes drink
As from a hollowed hand.
The green page of the meadow-land
Around a pool where thrushes drink
As from a hollowed hand.
A hill, long-haired with feathered grass
Combed by the strong incessant wind,
Looks down upon the pool's pale glass
Like some old hag gone blind.
Combed by the strong incessant wind,
Looks down upon the pool's pale glass
Like some old hag gone blind.
And on a forest grey of beech,
Reserved, mysterious, deep and wild,
That whispers to itself; its speech
Like some old man's turned child.
Reserved, mysterious, deep and wild,
That whispers to itself; its speech
Like some old man's turned child.
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A forest, through which something speaks
Authoritative things to man,
A something that o'erawed the Greeks,
The universal Pan.
Authoritative things to man,
A something that o'erawed the Greeks,
The universal Pan.
And through the forest falls a stream
Babbling of immemorial things—
The myth, that haunts it like a dream,
The god, that in it sings.
Babbling of immemorial things—
The myth, that haunts it like a dream,
The god, that in it sings.
And here it was, when I was young,—
Across this meadow, sorrel-stained,
To this green place where willows wrung
Wild hands, and beech-trees strained
Across this meadow, sorrel-stained,
To this green place where willows wrung
Wild hands, and beech-trees strained
Their mighty strength with winds of spring,
That clutched and tore the wild-witch hair
Of yon gaunt hill,—I heard them sing,
The hylas hidden there.
That clutched and tore the wild-witch hair
Of yon gaunt hill,—I heard them sing,
The hylas hidden there.
70
The slant gale played soft fugues of rain,
With interludes of sun between,
Where windflowers wove a twinkling chain
Through mosses grey and green.
With interludes of sun between,
Where windflowers wove a twinkling chain
Through mosses grey and green.
From every coign of woodland peered
The starry eyes of Loveliness,
As reticently now she neared
Or stood in shy distress.
The starry eyes of Loveliness,
As reticently now she neared
Or stood in shy distress.
Then I remembered all the past—
The ancient ships, the unknown seas;
And him, like some huge, knotted mast,
My master Herakles.
The ancient ships, the unknown seas;
And him, like some huge, knotted mast,
My master Herakles.
Again I saw the port, the wood
Of Cyzicus; the landing there;
The pool among the reeds; and, nude,
The nymphs with long green hair,
Of Cyzicus; the landing there;
The pool among the reeds; and, nude,
The nymphs with long green hair,
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That swarmed to clasp me when I stooped
To that grey pool as clear as glass,
And round my body wrapped and looped
Their hair, like water-grass.
To that grey pool as clear as glass,
And round my body wrapped and looped
Their hair, like water-grass.
Hylas, the Argonaut, the lad
Beloved of Herakles, was I—
Again with joy my heart grew sad,
Dreaming on days gone by.
Beloved of Herakles, was I—
Again with joy my heart grew sad,
Dreaming on days gone by.
Again I felt the drowning pain,
The kiss that slew me long ago;
The dripping arms drew down again,
And love cried all its woe.
The kiss that slew me long ago;
The dripping arms drew down again,
And love cried all its woe.
The new world vanished! 'Twas the old.
Once more I knew the Mysian shore,
The haunted pool, the wood, the cold
Wild wind from sea and moor.—
Once more I knew the Mysian shore,
The haunted pool, the wood, the cold
Wild wind from sea and moor.—
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And then a voice went by; 'twas his,
The Demigod's who sought me: but
Cold mouths had closed mine with a kiss
And both mine eyes were shut. ...
The Demigod's who sought me: but
Cold mouths had closed mine with a kiss
And both mine eyes were shut. ...
And had the hylas ceased to sing?
Or what?—For, lo! I stood again
Between the hill and wood; and Spring
Gazed at me through the rain.
Or what?—For, lo! I stood again
Between the hill and wood; and Spring
Gazed at me through the rain.
And in her gaze I seemed to see
This was a dream she'd dreamed, not I;
A figment of a memory
That I had felt go by.
This was a dream she'd dreamed, not I;
A figment of a memory
That I had felt go by.
| New poems by Madison Cawein | |