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 | The poems of Madison Cawein |  |
363
THE BLUEBIRD
From morn till noon upon the window-paneThe tempest tapped with rainy finger-nails,
And all the afternoon the blustering gales
Beat at the door with furious feet of rain.
The rose, near which the lily's bloom lay slain,
Like some red wound dripped by the garden rails,
On which the sullen slug left silvery trails—
It seemed the sun would never shine again.
Then in the drench, long, loud, and clarion-clear,—
A skyey herald tabarded in blue,—
A bluebird warbled . . . and at once a bow
Was bent in heaven, and I seemed to hear
God's sapphire spaces crystallizing through
The strata'd clouds in azure tremolo.
| The poems of Madison Cawein | |