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 | The poems of Madison Cawein |  |
XXVII
There is a rushing in the woods,
The autumn-haunted solitudes,
When night comes in with winds that sweep
The wild rain from the hills; and reap
The roaring harvest of the leaves
With unseen scythes Death stalks behind,
And Desolation, fierce and blind,
Heaping the storm's tumultuous sheaves.
The autumn-haunted solitudes,
When night comes in with winds that sweep
The wild rain from the hills; and reap
The roaring harvest of the leaves
With unseen scythes Death stalks behind,
And Desolation, fierce and blind,
Heaping the storm's tumultuous sheaves.
26
There is a sighing in the woods,
The hills of autumn solitudes,
When on the night, the winds have strewn
With crowding clouds, the stormy moon
Bursts like a herald shouting Cease!
Through darkness o'er a battlefield
Of Hell; the splendor of his shield
Inscribed with silence and with peace.
The hills of autumn solitudes,
When on the night, the winds have strewn
With crowding clouds, the stormy moon
Bursts like a herald shouting Cease!
Through darkness o'er a battlefield
Of Hell; the splendor of his shield
Inscribed with silence and with peace.
| The poems of Madison Cawein | |