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 | The poems of Madison Cawein |  |
5
V
The climbing-cricket in the dusk
Moves wings of moony gossamer;
Its vague, vibrating note I hear
Among the boughs of dew and musk,
Whence, rustling with a mellow thud,
The ripe quince falls. Low, deep and clear,
The west is bound with burning blood.
Moves wings of moony gossamer;
Its vague, vibrating note I hear
Among the boughs of dew and musk,
Whence, rustling with a mellow thud,
The ripe quince falls. Low, deep and clear,
The west is bound with burning blood.
The slanting bats beneath the moon,—
A dark disk edge with glittering white,—
Spin loops of intertangled night:
An owl wakes, hooting over soon,
Within the forest far away:
And now the heav'n fills, light by light,
And all the blood-red west grows gray.
A dark disk edge with glittering white,—
Spin loops of intertangled night:
An owl wakes, hooting over soon,
Within the forest far away:
And now the heav'n fills, light by light,
And all the blood-red west grows gray.
I hear no sound of wind or wave;
No sob or song, except the slow
Leaf-cricket's flute-soft tremolo,
Among wet walks grown gray and grave.—
In raiment mists of silver sear,
With strange, pale eyes thou comest, O
Thou Spirit of the Waning-Year!
No sob or song, except the slow
Leaf-cricket's flute-soft tremolo,
Among wet walks grown gray and grave.—
In raiment mists of silver sear,
With strange, pale eyes thou comest, O
Thou Spirit of the Waning-Year!
| The poems of Madison Cawein | |