The poems of Madison Cawein

When love delays, when love delays and joy
Steals like a shadow o'er the happy hills;
When hope is gone; and no to-morrow fills
The promise of to-day; still I employ
My soul with thoughts of thee,
Who 'rt not for me, for me!

When love delays, when love delays and song
Aches at wild lips, unutterable, as the sound
Of ocean strives, within the shell's mouth bound;
And hope is gone for ever, slain of wrong;
Still in my heart one word
Keeps calling like a bird.

When love delays, when love delays and sleep
Seals tired eyelids,—like the sound of foam,
Heard 'mid familiar flowers far from home,—

383

When hope lies dead; in dreams, in dreams I keep
Feeling thy lips' sweet touch,—
And, oh! it is too much!

When love delays, when love delays and sorrow
Drinks her own tears that add but to her thirst;
When song and sleep and love itself seem curst,
And hope lies dead; still, still I dream to-morrow
Will bring some word of cheer
From thee who art not here.

Will love delay, will love delay till death
Hath sealed these lips and locked these eyes in night?
Till unto love and hate indifferent quite
This form shall lie? Then wilt thou, wild of breath,
Bend down and kiss me there
When I no more shall care?

II

If thou wouldst know the Beautiful that breathes
And beckons through the World, far must thou seek! ...

384

She is no shadow wreathed with hemlock wreaths;
No drowsy sorrow whose wan eyes are weak
With melancholy vigils; and no shade
Of tragic sin of the sweet sun afraid:
No tearful anger torn of truthless love,
Who stabs her sick heart to the dagger's hilt
For vengeance sweet; no miser mood, or maid,
In owlet towers!—Nay! she sings above
On morning meads 'mid flowers that never wilt.

If thou dost seek the Beautiful, beware!
Lest thou discover her, nor know 'tis she;
And she enslave thee to thy heart's despair,
And fill thy soul with yearning, utterly,
For that wild-rose which is her mouth, that brings
Dew-odors of the dawn; for those twin springs
Of light, her eyes; the bloom of her white brow,
O'er which the foliage of her dark hair lies:
The melody which is her heart, that sings
The poetry of love, to which all bow,
Both gods and men, the love that never dies.

Lost art thou then, lost as the first lone star
Set in the splendor of the sunset's wave;

385

Lost in thy loneliness of searching far,
Striving to clasp her, evermore her slave:
Lost—gladly lost! a devotee to her
Who, in the end, perhaps may let thee share
A portion of her bliss, her heritage
Of happiness in the same way and wise
As woods and waters share it.—Then prepare
Thy soul,—made perfect,—for its final wage,
Her kiss, whose touch shall apotheosize.

III

Now that the orchard's leaves are sere,
And drip with rain instead of dew,
No moon-bright fruit hangs moon-like here,
And dead your long white lilies too,—
And dead the heart that broke for you:

How comes the dim touch of your arm?
Your faint lips on my feverish cheek?
Your eyes near mine? deep as a charm,
And gray, so gray! till I am weak,
Weak with wild tears and can not speak.

I am as one who walks in dreams;
Sees, as in youth, his father's home;
Hears from his native mountain streams
Far music of continual foam,
And one sweet voice that bids him come.

University of Virginia Library

CHORDS

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