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THE SOLITARY |
|
 | The poems of Madison Cawein |  |
413
THE SOLITARY
Upon the mossed rock by the spring
She sits, forgetful of her pail,
Lost in remote remembering
Of that which may no more avail.
She sits, forgetful of her pail,
Lost in remote remembering
Of that which may no more avail.
Her thin, pale hair is dimly dressed
Above a brow lined deep with care,
The color of a leaf long pressed,
A faded leaf that once was fair.
Above a brow lined deep with care,
The color of a leaf long pressed,
A faded leaf that once was fair.
You may not know her from the stone
So still she sits who does not stir,
Thinking of this one thing alone—
The love that never came to her.
So still she sits who does not stir,
Thinking of this one thing alone—
The love that never came to her.
What though I dreamed of mountain heights,
Of peaks, the barriers of the world,
Around whose tops the Northern Lights
And tempests are unfurled!
Of peaks, the barriers of the world,
Around whose tops the Northern Lights
And tempests are unfurled!
Mine are the footpaths leading through
Life's lowly fields and woods,—with rifts,
Above, of heaven's Eden blue,—
By which the violet lifts
Life's lowly fields and woods,—with rifts,
Above, of heaven's Eden blue,—
By which the violet lifts
Its shy appeal; and, holding up
Its chaliced gold, like some wild wine,
Along the hillside, cup on cup,
Blooms bright the celandine.
Its chaliced gold, like some wild wine,
Along the hillside, cup on cup,
Blooms bright the celandine.
Where soft upon each flowering stock
The butterfly spreads damask wings;
And under grassy loam and rock
The cottage cricket sings.
The butterfly spreads damask wings;
And under grassy loam and rock
The cottage cricket sings.
Where, overhead, eve blooms with fire,
In which the new moon bends her bow,
And, arrow-like, one white star by her
Burns through the afterglow.
In which the new moon bends her bow,
And, arrow-like, one white star by her
Burns through the afterglow.
I care not, so the sesame
I find; the magic flower there,
Whose touch unseals each mystery
In water, earth and air.
I find; the magic flower there,
Whose touch unseals each mystery
In water, earth and air.
Which, in the oak-tree, lets me hear
Its heart's deep speech, its soul's wise words;
And to my mind makes crystal clear
The melodies of birds.
Its heart's deep speech, its soul's wise words;
And to my mind makes crystal clear
The melodies of birds.
Why should I care, who live aloof,
Beyond the din of life and dust,
While dreams still share my humble roof,
And love makes sweet my crust?
Beyond the din of life and dust,
While dreams still share my humble roof,
And love makes sweet my crust?
| The poems of Madison Cawein | |