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THE ROCK |
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 | The poems of Madison Cawein |  |
163
THE ROCK
Here, at its base, in dingled deeps
Of spice-bush, where the ivy creeps,
The cold spring scoops its hollow;
And there, three mossy stepping-stones
Make ripple murmurs; undertones
Of foam, whose low falls follow
A voice far in the wood that drones.
Of spice-bush, where the ivy creeps,
The cold spring scoops its hollow;
And there, three mossy stepping-stones
Make ripple murmurs; undertones
Of foam, whose low falls follow
A voice far in the wood that drones.
The quail pipes here when noons are hot;
And here, in coolness sunlight-shot,
Beneath a roof of briers,
The red fox skulks at close of day;
And here, at night, the shadows gray
Stand like Franciscan friars,
With moonbeam beads whereon they pray.
And here, in coolness sunlight-shot,
Beneath a roof of briers,
The red fox skulks at close of day;
And here, at night, the shadows gray
Stand like Franciscan friars,
With moonbeam beads whereon they pray.
Here yawns the woodchuck's dark-dug hole;
And there the tunnel of the mole
Heaves under weed and flower;
A sandy pit-fall here and there
The ant-lion digs and lies a-lair
And here, for sun and shower,
The spider weaves a silvery snare.
And there the tunnel of the mole
Heaves under weed and flower;
A sandy pit-fall here and there
164
And here, for sun and shower,
The spider weaves a silvery snare.
The poison-oak's rank tendrils twine
The rock's south side; the trumpet-vine,
With crimson bugles sprinkled,
Makes green its eastern side; the west
Is rough with lichens; and, gray-pressed
Into an angle wrinkled,
The hornets hang an oblong nest.
The rock's south side; the trumpet-vine,
With crimson bugles sprinkled,
Makes green its eastern side; the west
Is rough with lichens; and, gray-pressed
Into an angle wrinkled,
The hornets hang an oblong nest.
The north is hid from sun and star,
And here,—like an Inquisitor
Of Faëry Inquisition,
Who roots out Elfland heresy,—
Deep in the rock, cowled shadowy
And grave as his commission,
The owl sits magisterially.
And here,—like an Inquisitor
Of Faëry Inquisition,
Who roots out Elfland heresy,—
Deep in the rock, cowled shadowy
And grave as his commission,
The owl sits magisterially.
| The poems of Madison Cawein | |