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MARCH AND MAY |
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 | The poems of Madison Cawein |  |
486
MARCH AND MAY
Windy the sky and mad;
Surly the gray March day;
Bleak the forests and sad,—
Oh, that it only were May!
Surly the gray March day;
Bleak the forests and sad,—
Oh, that it only were May!
On maples, tasseled with red,
No blithe bird, fluting, swung;
The brook, in its swollen bed,
Raved on in an unknown tongue.
No blithe bird, fluting, swung;
The brook, in its swollen bed,
Raved on in an unknown tongue.
We walked in the wind-tossed wood:
Her face as the May's was fair;
Her blood was the May's own blood;
And May's her radiant hair.
Her face as the May's was fair;
Her blood was the May's own blood;
And May's her radiant hair.
And we found in the woodland wild
One cowering violet,
Like a frail and timorous child,
In the caked leaves bowed and wet.
One cowering violet,
Like a frail and timorous child,
In the caked leaves bowed and wet.
And I said, “We have walked in vain!
To find but this shivering bud,
Weighed down with its weight of rain,
Crouched here in the wild March wood.”
To find but this shivering bud,
Weighed down with its weight of rain,
Crouched here in the wild March wood.”
487
But she said, “Though the day be sad,
And the skies be dark with fate,
There is always something glad
That will help our hearts to wait.
And the skies be dark with fate,
There is always something glad
That will help our hearts to wait.
“Look, now, at this beautiful thing,
In this wood's wild hollow curled!
'Tis a promise of joy and spring,
And of love, to the waiting world.
In this wood's wild hollow curled!
'Tis a promise of joy and spring,
And of love, to the waiting world.
“Ah, the sinless Earth is fair,
And man's are the sin and the gloom—
Come, bury the days that were,
And look to'ard the days to come!”
And man's are the sin and the gloom—
Come, bury the days that were,
And look to'ard the days to come!”
[OMITTED]
And the May came on with her charms,
With twinkle and rustle of feet;
Blooms stormed from her luminous arms,
And songs that were wildly sweet.
With twinkle and rustle of feet;
Blooms stormed from her luminous arms,
And songs that were wildly sweet.
Now I think of her words that day,
This day that I longed so to see,
That finds her dead with the May,
And my life but a withered tree.
This day that I longed so to see,
That finds her dead with the May,
And my life but a withered tree.
| The poems of Madison Cawein | |