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 | The poems of Madison Cawein |  |
LVIII
Again the night is wild with rain;
Again distracted with the gale:
Upon the hills I hear a wail
Of lamentation and of pain,
As when, on some high burial-place,
Moaning among the windy graves,
The Indian squaws lament the braves,
Who fell in battle for their race.
Again distracted with the gale:
Upon the hills I hear a wail
Of lamentation and of pain,
As when, on some high burial-place,
Moaning among the windy graves,
The Indian squaws lament the braves,
Who fell in battle for their race.
Another day of storm shall dawn
Within the east; and, darkly lit,
Like one, with brows abstraction-knit,
Absorbed in moody thought, pass on.—
Bear not too hard, is all I ask,
Upon the hearts that toil and yearn,
O day of clouds! but swiftly turn
To sunshine all your frowning mask.
Within the east; and, darkly lit,
52
Absorbed in moody thought, pass on.—
Bear not too hard, is all I ask,
Upon the hearts that toil and yearn,
O day of clouds! but swiftly turn
To sunshine all your frowning mask.
| The poems of Madison Cawein | |