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WOODLAND WATERS |
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|
 | The poems of Madison Cawein |  |
V
WOODLAND WATERS
Through leaves of the nodding trees,
Where blossoms sway in the breeze,
Pink bag-pipes made for the bees,
Whose slogan is droning and drawling:
Where the columbine scatters its bells,
And the wild bleeding-heart its shells,
O'er mosses and rocks of the dells
The brook of the forest is falling.
Where blossoms sway in the breeze,
Pink bag-pipes made for the bees,
Whose slogan is droning and drawling:
Where the columbine scatters its bells,
204
O'er mosses and rocks of the dells
The brook of the forest is falling.
You can hear it under the hill
When the wind in the wood is still,
And, strokes of a fairy drill,
Sounds the bill of the yellow-hammer:
By the solomon's-seal it slips,
Cohosh and the grass that drips—
Like the words of an Undine's lips,
Is the sound of its falls that stammer.
When the wind in the wood is still,
And, strokes of a fairy drill,
Sounds the bill of the yellow-hammer:
By the solomon's-seal it slips,
Cohosh and the grass that drips—
Like the words of an Undine's lips,
Is the sound of its falls that stammer.
I lie in the woods: and the scent
Of the honeysuckle is blent
With the sound: and a Sultan's tent
Is my dream, with the East enmeshéd:—
A slave-girl sings; and I hear
The languor of lute-strings near,
And a dancing-girl of Cashmere
In the harem of good Er Reshid.
Of the honeysuckle is blent
With the sound: and a Sultan's tent
Is my dream, with the East enmeshéd:—
A slave-girl sings; and I hear
The languor of lute-strings near,
And a dancing-girl of Cashmere
In the harem of good Er Reshid.
From ripples of Irak lace
She flashes the amorous grace
Of her naked limbs and her face,
While her golden anklets tinkle:
Then over mosaic floors
Open seraglio doors
Of cedar: by twos, by fours,—
Like stars that tremble and twinkle,—
She flashes the amorous grace
Of her naked limbs and her face,
While her golden anklets tinkle:
Then over mosaic floors
205
Of cedar: by twos, by fours,—
Like stars that tremble and twinkle,—
While the dulcimers sing, unseen,
The handmaids come of the Queen
'Neath silvern lamps, one sheen
Of jewels of Afrite treasure:
And I see the Arabia rise
Of the Nights that were rich and wise,
Beautiful, dark, in the eyes
Of Zubeideh, the Queen of Pleasure.
The handmaids come of the Queen
'Neath silvern lamps, one sheen
Of jewels of Afrite treasure:
And I see the Arabia rise
Of the Nights that were rich and wise,
Beautiful, dark, in the eyes
Of Zubeideh, the Queen of Pleasure.
| The poems of Madison Cawein | |