The poems of Madison Cawein

“Wind of the East, if thou pass by the land where my loved ones dwell, I pray,
The fullest of greetings bear to them from me, their lover, and say
That I am the pledge of passion still.”—
FROM THE ARABIC.

The ways of the wind are eerie,
And I love them all:
The blithe, the mad, and the dreary,
Spring, winter, and fall.

When it tells to the waiting crocus
Its beak to show;
And hangs on the wayside locust
Bloom-bunches of snow.

When it comes like a balmy blessing
From the musky wood,
The half-grown roses caressing
Till their cheeks burn blood.

When it roars in the autumn season,
And whines with rain,
Or sleet, like a mind without reason,
Or a soul in pain.

When the woodways, once so spicy
With bud and bloom,
Are desolate, dead and icy
As the icy tomb.

When the puffed owl, crouched and frowsy,
In the hollow tree,
Sobs, dolorous, cold, and drowsy,
Its shuddering melody.

Then I love to sit in December
Where the big hearth sings,
And, dreaming, forget and remember
A host of things.

And the wind—I hear how it strangles,
And wails and sighs
On the roof's sharp, shivering angles
That front the skies.

How it shouts and romps and tumbles
In attics o'erhead;
In the great-throated chimney rumbles,
Then all at once falls dead;

Then comes like the footsteps stealing
Of a child on the stair,
Or a bent, old gentleman feeling
His slippered way with care.

And my soul grows anxious-hearted
For those once dear—
The long-lost loves, departed,
In the wind draw near.

And I seem to see their faces—
Not one estranged—
In their old accustomed places
Round the wide hearth ranged.

And the wind, that waits and poises
Where the shadows sway,
Seems their visionary voices
Calling me far away.

Then I wake in tears and hear it
Wailing outside my door,—
Or is it some wandering spirit
Weeping upon the moor?

University of Virginia Library

THE WIND