 | The poems of Madison Cawein |  |
372
LOVE IN A GARDEN
I
Between the rose's and the canna's crimson,
Beneath thy window in the night I stand;
The jeweled dew hangs little stars, in rims, on
The white moonflowers; each a spirit hand
That points the path to mystic Shadowland.
Beneath thy window in the night I stand;
The jeweled dew hangs little stars, in rims, on
The white moonflowers; each a spirit hand
That points the path to mystic Shadowland.
Awaken, sweet and fair!
And add to night thy grace!
Suffer its loveliness to share
The white moon of thy face,
The dark cloud of thy hair.
Awaken, sweet and fair!
And add to night thy grace!
Suffer its loveliness to share
The white moon of thy face,
The dark cloud of thy hair.
Awaken, sweet and fair!
II
A moth, like down, swings on th' althea's pistil,—
Ghost of a tone that haunts its bell's deep dome;—
And in the August-lily's cone of crystal
A firefly hangs the lantern of a gnome,
Green as a gem that gleams through hollow foam.
Ghost of a tone that haunts its bell's deep dome;—
373
A firefly hangs the lantern of a gnome,
Green as a gem that gleams through hollow foam.
Approach! the moment flies!
O sweetheart of the South!
Come! mingle with night's mysteries
The red rose of thy mouth,
The dark stars of thine eyes.—
Approach! the moment flies!
O sweetheart of the South!
Come! mingle with night's mysteries
The red rose of thy mouth,
The dark stars of thine eyes.—
Approach! the moment flies!
III
Dim through the dusk, like some unearthly presence,
The night-song silvers of a dreaming bird;
And with it borne, faint on a breeze-blown essence,
The rainy whisper of a fountain's heard—
As if young lips had breathed a perfumed word.
The night-song silvers of a dreaming bird;
And with it borne, faint on a breeze-blown essence,
The rainy whisper of a fountain's heard—
As if young lips had breathed a perfumed word.
How long, my love, my bliss!
How long must I await
With night—that all impatience is—
Thy greeting at the gate,
And at the gate thy kiss?
How long, my love, my bliss!
How long must I await
With night—that all impatience is—
Thy greeting at the gate,
And at the gate thy kiss?
How long, my love, my bliss!
| The poems of Madison Cawein | |