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|
 | The poems of Madison Cawein |  |
XV
At the gate. She speaks:
Sunday shall we ride together?
Not the root-rough, rambling way
Through the wood we went that day,
In last summer's sultry weather.
Not the root-rough, rambling way
Through the wood we went that day,
In last summer's sultry weather.
Past the Methodist camp-meeting,
Where religion helped the hymn
Gather volume; and a slim
Minister, with textful greeting,
Where religion helped the hymn
48
Minister, with textful greeting,
Welcomed us and still expounded.—
From the service on the hill
We had passed three hills and still
Loud, though far, the singing sounded.
From the service on the hill
We had passed three hills and still
Loud, though far, the singing sounded.
Nor that road through weed and berry
Drowsy days led me and you
To the old-time barbecue,
Where the country-side made merry.
Drowsy days led me and you
To the old-time barbecue,
Where the country-side made merry.
Dusty vehicles together;
Darkies with the horses near
Tied to trees; the atmosphere
Redolent of bark and leather,
Darkies with the horses near
Tied to trees; the atmosphere
Redolent of bark and leather,
And of burgoo and of beef; there
Roasting whole within the trench;
Near which spread the long pine bench
Under shading limb and leaf there.
Roasting whole within the trench;
Near which spread the long pine bench
Under shading limb and leaf there.
As we went the homeward journey
You exclaimed, “They intermix
Pleasure there and politics,
Love and war: our modern tourney.”
You exclaimed, “They intermix
Pleasure there and politics,
Love and war: our modern tourney.”
49
And the fiddles!—through the thickets,
How they thumped the old quadrille!
Scraping, droning on the hill,
It was like a swarm of crickets. ...
How they thumped the old quadrille!
Scraping, droning on the hill,
It was like a swarm of crickets. ...
Neither road! The shady quiet
Of that path by beech and birch,
Winding to the ruined church
Near the stream that sparkles by it.
Of that path by beech and birch,
Winding to the ruined church
Near the stream that sparkles by it.
Where the silent Sundays listen
For the preacher—Love—we bring
In our hearts to preach and sing
Week-day shade to Sabbath glisten.
For the preacher—Love—we bring
In our hearts to preach and sing
Week-day shade to Sabbath glisten.
| The poems of Madison Cawein | |