 | The poems of Madison Cawein |  |
XVIII
The flowers of the fall I seek:
The purple aster,—like a gauze
Of pearl,—beneath the nodding haws
Or making gay each tangled creek:
The hairy, small herb-Robert, lost,—
Yet seen,—among the weeds which crush
Or crowd it, with its bluish blush;
Its rough, low stalk stung red with frost.
The purple aster,—like a gauze
Of pearl,—beneath the nodding haws
Or making gay each tangled creek:
The hairy, small herb-Robert, lost,—
Yet seen,—among the weeds which crush
Or crowd it, with its bluish blush;
Its rough, low stalk stung red with frost.
Around the rail-fence, climbing up,
The nightshade hangs rich berries down,—
Clusters of cochineal,—that drown
The flowering bind-weed's pendant cup:
And where the boggy bottom sets
Its burs as breastworks and as tents,
Like bivouacking regiments,
The cat-tails stack their bayonets.
The nightshade hangs rich berries down,—
Clusters of cochineal,—that drown
The flowering bind-weed's pendant cup:
And where the boggy bottom sets
Its burs as breastworks and as tents,
18
The cat-tails stack their bayonets.
From amaranth—in tree and flower—
To asphodel—in weed and bloom—
The season swings a magic loom
Of sun and mist from hour to hour:
In its wide warp it weaves the dyes
Of morning's brilliant blue and gray;
And crimson through the weft of day
Flings the wild woof of evening skies.
To asphodel—in weed and bloom—
The season swings a magic loom
Of sun and mist from hour to hour:
In its wide warp it weaves the dyes
Of morning's brilliant blue and gray;
And crimson through the weft of day
Flings the wild woof of evening skies.
| The poems of Madison Cawein | |