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THE WOOD SPIRIT |
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|
 | The poems of Madison Cawein |  |
II
THE WOOD SPIRIT
Ah me! I still remember
How flushed, before the shower,
The dusk was; like a scarlet rose,
Or blood-red poppy-flower.
How flushed, before the shower,
198
Or blood-red poppy-flower.
Now heaven is starred; the moonlight
Lays blurs upon the grain—
You may not know it from white frost,
The moonlight on the rain.
Lays blurs upon the grain—
You may not know it from white frost,
The moonlight on the rain.
And all the forest utters
A restless moan in rest,
For all the deep, dark shadow lies
Like iron on its breast.
A restless moan in rest,
For all the deep, dark shadow lies
Like iron on its breast.
I mark the moveless shadow,
I mark the unreaped corn,
Then something whispers overhead,
“Come to me, mortal-born.”
I mark the unreaped corn,
Then something whispers overhead,
“Come to me, mortal-born.”
I sit alone and listen;
The low leaves sound and sigh;
The dew drips from the bearded grain,
A mist slips from the sky.—
The low leaves sound and sigh;
The dew drips from the bearded grain,
A mist slips from the sky.—
I hear her whisper, whisper,
And breathe in some dim place;
Her feet are easier than the dew,
And than the mist her face.
And breathe in some dim place;
Her feet are easier than the dew,
And than the mist her face.
199
I may not clasp her ever,
This spirit made for song,
Who dwelleth in the young, young oak
The old, old oaks among.
This spirit made for song,
Who dwelleth in the young, young oak
The old, old oaks among.
Her limbs are molded moonlight;
Her breasts are silver moons:
She glimmers and she glitters where
The purple shadow swoons.
Her breasts are silver moons:
She glimmers and she glitters where
The purple shadow swoons.
And since she knows I love her,
She says my soul has died,
And laughs and mocks me in the mist
That haunts the forest-side.
She says my soul has died,
And laughs and mocks me in the mist
That haunts the forest-side.
When winds run mad in woodlands
And all the great boughs swing,
I see her wild hair blow and blow
Black as a raven's wing.
And all the great boughs swing,
I see her wild hair blow and blow
Black as a raven's wing.
When winds are tamed and tethered
And stars are keen as frost,
I search and seek within the wood,
There where my soul was lost.
And stars are keen as frost,
I search and seek within the wood,
There where my soul was lost.
I seek her, and she flies me;
I follow; and the whole
Dim woodland echoes with her voice,
Soft calling to my soul.
I follow; and the whole
Dim woodland echoes with her voice,
Soft calling to my soul.
| The poems of Madison Cawein | |