 | The poems of Madison Cawein |  |
XXVIII
The storm,—that makes the sky its own,
And smites its spirit through Earth's nerves,
And, like an instrument which serves
High purposes to us unknown
Of song that knows not that it sings,—
Itself is all majestic things
Imagination forms or feels;
Itself all wonders it reveals
To thought, which knows but semblances
Of such concealed realities.
And smites its spirit through Earth's nerves,
And, like an instrument which serves
High purposes to us unknown
Of song that knows not that it sings,—
Itself is all majestic things
Imagination forms or feels;
Itself all wonders it reveals
To thought, which knows but semblances
Of such concealed realities.
The star, that flames through storm and crowds
An instant with its utterance
Of silence and serene romance,
And glides again into the clouds,
Shone for some present end; and filled
A moment's need as Heaven willed:—
A thought, some dreamer labored for,
Immaculate as is a star;
A hope, some weary watcher read
Pale in the loved face of his dead.
An instant with its utterance
Of silence and serene romance,
And glides again into the clouds,
Shone for some present end; and filled
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A thought, some dreamer labored for,
Immaculate as is a star;
A hope, some weary watcher read
Pale in the loved face of his dead.
| The poems of Madison Cawein | |