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|
 | The poems of Madison Cawein |  |
VII
After the final meeting; the day following:
I seem to see her still; to see
That blue-hung room. Her perfume comes
From lavender folds, draped dreamily,—
A-blossom with brocaded blooms,—
Some stuff of orient looms.
That blue-hung room. Her perfume comes
From lavender folds, draped dreamily,—
73
Some stuff of orient looms.
I seem to hear her speak; and back,
Where sleeps the sun on books and piles
Of porcelain and bric-à-brac,
A tall clock ticks above the tiles,
Where Love's framed profile smiles.
Where sleeps the sun on books and piles
Of porcelain and bric-à-brac,
A tall clock ticks above the tiles,
Where Love's framed profile smiles.
I hear her say, “Ah, had I known!—
I suffer too for what has been—
For what must be.”—A wild ache shone
In her sad gaze that seemed to lean
On something far, unseen.
I suffer too for what has been—
For what must be.”—A wild ache shone
In her sad gaze that seemed to lean
On something far, unseen.
And as in sleep my own self seems
Outside my suffering self.—I flush
'Twixt facts and undetermined dreams,
And stand, as silent as that hush
Of lilac light and plush.
Outside my suffering self.—I flush
'Twixt facts and undetermined dreams,
And stand, as silent as that hush
Of lilac light and plush.
Smiling, but suffering, I feel,
Beneath that face, so sweet and sad,
In those pale temples, thoughts, like steel,
Pierce burningly. ... I had gone mad
Had I once thought her glad.—
Beneath that face, so sweet and sad,
In those pale temples, thoughts, like steel,
Pierce burningly. ... I had gone mad
Had I once thought her glad.—
74
Unconsciously, with eyes that yearn
To look beyond the present far,
For one faint future hope, I turn—
There, in her garden, one fierce star,
A cactus, red as war,
To look beyond the present far,
For one faint future hope, I turn—
There, in her garden, one fierce star,
A cactus, red as war,
Vermilion as a storm-sunk sun,
Flames torrid splendor,—brings to life
A sunset; memory of one
Rich eve she said she 'd be my wife;
An eve with beauty rife.
Flames torrid splendor,—brings to life
A sunset; memory of one
Rich eve she said she 'd be my wife;
An eve with beauty rife.
Again amid the heavy hues,
Soft crimson, seal, and satiny gold
Of flowers there, I stood 'mid dews
With her; deep in her garden old,
While sunset's flame unrolled.
Soft crimson, seal, and satiny gold
Of flowers there, I stood 'mid dews
With her; deep in her garden old,
While sunset's flame unrolled.
And now! ... It can not be! and yet
To see 'tis so!—In heart and brain
To know 'tis so!—While, warm and wet,
I seem to smell those scents again,
Verbena scents and rain.
To see 'tis so!—In heart and brain
To know 'tis so!—While, warm and wet,
I seem to smell those scents again,
Verbena scents and rain.
I turn, in hope she'll bid me stay.
Again her cameo beauty mark
Set in that smile.—She turns away.
No farewell! no regret! no spark
Of hope to cheer the dark!
Again her cameo beauty mark
Set in that smile.—She turns away.
75
Of hope to cheer the dark!
That sepia sketch—conceive it so—
A jaunty head with mouth and eyes
Tragic beneath a rose-chapeau,
Silk-masked, unmasking—it denies
The look we half surmise,
A jaunty head with mouth and eyes
Tragic beneath a rose-chapeau,
Silk-masked, unmasking—it denies
The look we half surmise,
We know is there. 'Tis thus we read
The true beneath the false; perceive
The ache beneath the smile.—Indeed!
Whose soul unmasks? ... Not mine!—I grieve,—
Oh God!—but laugh and leave. ...
The true beneath the false; perceive
The ache beneath the smile.—Indeed!
Whose soul unmasks? ... Not mine!—I grieve,—
Oh God!—but laugh and leave. ...
| The poems of Madison Cawein | |