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 | The poems of Madison Cawein |  |
311
SUNSET CLOUDS
Low clouds, the lightning veins and cleaves,
Torn from the wilderness of storm,
Sweep westward like enormous leaves
O'er field and farm.
Torn from the wilderness of storm,
Sweep westward like enormous leaves
O'er field and farm.
And in the west, on burning skies,
Their wrath is quenched, their hate is hushed,
And deep their drifted thunder lies
With splendor flushed.
Their wrath is quenched, their hate is hushed,
And deep their drifted thunder lies
With splendor flushed.
The black turns gray, the gray turns gold;
And sea'd in deeps of radiant rose,
Summits of fire, manifold,
They now repose.
And sea'd in deeps of radiant rose,
Summits of fire, manifold,
They now repose.
What dreams they bring! what thoughts reveal!
That have their source in loveliness,
Through which the doubts I often feel
Grow less and less.
That have their source in loveliness,
Through which the doubts I often feel
Grow less and less.
Through which I see that other night,
That cloud called Death, transformed of Love
To flame, and pointing with its light
To life above.
That cloud called Death, transformed of Love
To flame, and pointing with its light
To life above.
| The poems of Madison Cawein | |