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 | The poems of Madison Cawein |  |
52
MIDSUMMER
The red blood stings through her cheeks and clings
In their tan with a fever that lightens;
And the clearness of heaven-born mountain springs
In her dark eyes dusks and brightens:
Her limbs are the limbs of an Atalanta who swings
With the youths in the sinewy games,
When the hot wind sings through the hair it flings,
And the circus roars hoarse with their names,
As they fly to the goal that flames.
In their tan with a fever that lightens;
And the clearness of heaven-born mountain springs
In her dark eyes dusks and brightens:
Her limbs are the limbs of an Atalanta who swings
With the youths in the sinewy games,
When the hot wind sings through the hair it flings,
And the circus roars hoarse with their names,
As they fly to the goal that flames.
Her voice is as deep as the waters that sweep
Through the musical reeds of a river;
A voice as of reapers who bind and reap,
With the ring of curved scythes that quiver:
A voice, singing ripe the orchards that heap
With crimson and gold the ground;
That whispers like sleep, till the briars weep
Their berries, all ruby round,
And vineyards are purple-crowned.
Through the musical reeds of a river;
A voice as of reapers who bind and reap,
With the ring of curved scythes that quiver:
A voice, singing ripe the orchards that heap
With crimson and gold the ground;
53
Their berries, all ruby round,
And vineyards are purple-crowned.
Right sweet is the beat of her glowing feet,
And her smile, as Heaven's, is gracious;
The creating might of her hands of heat
As a god's or a goddess's spacious:
The odorous blood in her heart a-beat
Is rich with a perishless fire;
And her bosom, most sweet, is the ardent seat
Of a mother who never will tire,
While the world has a breath to suspire.
And her smile, as Heaven's, is gracious;
The creating might of her hands of heat
As a god's or a goddess's spacious:
The odorous blood in her heart a-beat
Is rich with a perishless fire;
And her bosom, most sweet, is the ardent seat
Of a mother who never will tire,
While the world has a breath to suspire.
Wherever she fares her soft voice bears
Fecundity; powers that thicken
The fruits,—as the wind made Thessalian mares
Of old mysteriously quicken:—
The apricots' honey, the milk of the pears,
The wine, great grape-clusters hold,
These, these are her cares, and her wealth she declares
In the corn's long billows of gold,
And flowers that jewel the wold.
Fecundity; powers that thicken
The fruits,—as the wind made Thessalian mares
Of old mysteriously quicken:—
The apricots' honey, the milk of the pears,
The wine, great grape-clusters hold,
These, these are her cares, and her wealth she declares
In the corn's long billows of gold,
And flowers that jewel the wold.
So, hail to her lips, and her sun-girt hips,
And the glory she wears in her tresses!
All hail to the balsam that dreams and drips
From her breasts that the light caresses!
Midsummer! whose fair arm lovingly slips
Round the Earth's great waist of green,
From whose mouth's aroma his hot mouth sips
The life that is love unseen,
And the beauty that God may mean.
And the glory she wears in her tresses!
54
From her breasts that the light caresses!
Midsummer! whose fair arm lovingly slips
Round the Earth's great waist of green,
From whose mouth's aroma his hot mouth sips
The life that is love unseen,
And the beauty that God may mean.
| The poems of Madison Cawein | |