 | 1. |
|
|
| 1. |
| 2. |
|
|
|
| 1. |
| 2. |
| 3. |
| 4. |
| 2. |
|
|
| 1. |
| 1. |
| 2. |
| 3. |
| 4. |
| 5. |
| 6. |
| 7. |
| 8. |
| 9. |
| 10. |
| 11. |
| 12. |
| 13. |
| 14. |
| 15. |
| 16. |
| 17. |
| 18. |
| 2. |
| 1. |
| 2. |
| 3. |
| 4. |
| 5. |
| 6. |
| 7. |
| 8. |
| 9. |
| 10. |
| 11. |
| 12. |
| 13. |
| 14. |
| 15. |
| 16. |
| 17. |
| 3. |
| 1. |
| 2. |
| 3. |
| 4. |
| 5. |
| 6. |
| 7. |
| 8. |
| 9. |
| 10. |
| 11. |
| 12. |
| 4. |
| 1. |
| 2. |
| 3. |
| 4. |
| 5. |
| 6. |
| 7. |
| 8. |
| 9. |
| 10. |
| 5. |
| 1. |
| 2. |
| 3. |
| 4. |
| 5. |
| 6. |
| 7. |
| 8. |
| 9. |
|
| 1. |
| 2. |
| 3. |
| 4. |
| 5. |
| 6. |
|
| 1. |
| 2. |
| 3. |
| 4. |
| 5. |
| 6. |
| 7. |
| 8. |
| 9. |
| 10. |
| 11. |
| 12. |
| 13. |
| 14. |
| 15. |
| 16. |
| 17. |
| 18. |
| 19. |
| 20. |
| 21. |
| 22. |
| 23. |
|
| 1. |
| 2. |
| 3. |
| 4. |
| 5. |
| 6. |
| 7. |
|
| 1. |
| 2. |
| 3. |
| 4. |
|
| 3. |
|
|
| 1. |
| 2. |
| 3. |
| 4. |
|
|
|
| 1. |
| 2. |
| 3. |
|
|
| 1. |
| 2. |
| 3. |
THE FOREST SPRING |
|
| 1. |
| 2. |
| 3. |
| 4. |
| 4. |
|
|
| 1. |
| 2. |
|
|
| 1. |
| 2. |
|
|
| 1. |
| 2. |
| 3. |
| 4. |
| 5. |
| 6. |
| 7. |
| 8. |
| 5. |
|
|
| 1. |
| 2. |
| 3. |
| 4. |
| 5. |
| 6. |
| 7. |
| 8. |
| 9. |
| 10. |
| 11. |
| 12. |
| 13. |
| 14. |
| 15. |
| 16. |
| 17. |
| 18. |
| 19. |
| 20. |
| 21. |
| 22. |
| 23. |
| 24. |
| 25. |
| 26. |
| 27. |
| 28. |
| 29. |
| 30. |
| 31. |
| 32. |
| 33. |
| 34. |
| 35. |
| 36. |
| 37. |
| 38. |
| 39. |
| 40. |
| 41. |
| 42. |
| 43. |
| 44. |
| 45. |
| 46. |
| 47. |
| 48. |
| 49. |
| 50. |
| 51. |
| 52. |
| 53. |
| 54. |
| 55. |
| 56. |
| 57. |
| 58. |
| 59. |
| 60. |
| 61. |
| 62. |
| 63. |
| 64. |
| 65. |
| 66. |
| 67. |
|
|
| 1. |
| 2. |
| 3. |
| 4. |
| 5. |
| 6. |
| 7. |
| 8. |
| 9. |
| 10. |
| 11. |
| 12. |
| 13. |
| 14. |
| 15. |
|
 | The poems of Madison Cawein |  |
450
THE FOREST SPRING
Push back the brambles, berry-blue;
The hollowed spring is full in view:
Deep-tangled with luxuriant fern
Ripples its rock-embedded urn.
The hollowed spring is full in view:
Deep-tangled with luxuriant fern
Ripples its rock-embedded urn.
Not for the loneliness that keeps
The coigne wherein its crystal sleeps;
Not for wild butterflies that sway
Their pansy pinions all the day
Above its mirror; nor the bee,
Nor dragon-fly, that, passing, see
Themselves reflected in its spar;
Not for the one white liquid star
That twinkles in its firmament;
Nor moon-shot clouds, so slowly sent
Athwart it when the kindly night
Beads its long grasses with the light
Small jewels of the dimpled dew:
Not for the day's inverted blue,
Nor the quaint, dimly colored stones
That dance within it where it moans;
Not for all these I love to sit
In silence and to gaze in it.
But, lo! a nymph with merry eyes
Greets mine within its laughing skies;
A glimmering, shimmering nymph who plays
All the long fragrant summer days
With instant sights of bees and birds,
And talks with them in water-words;
And for whose nakedness the air
Weaves moony mists; and on whose hair,
Unfilleted, the night will set
That lone star as a coronet.
The coigne wherein its crystal sleeps;
Not for wild butterflies that sway
Their pansy pinions all the day
Above its mirror; nor the bee,
Nor dragon-fly, that, passing, see
Themselves reflected in its spar;
Not for the one white liquid star
That twinkles in its firmament;
Nor moon-shot clouds, so slowly sent
Athwart it when the kindly night
Beads its long grasses with the light
Small jewels of the dimpled dew:
Not for the day's inverted blue,
Nor the quaint, dimly colored stones
That dance within it where it moans;
451
In silence and to gaze in it.
But, lo! a nymph with merry eyes
Greets mine within its laughing skies;
A glimmering, shimmering nymph who plays
All the long fragrant summer days
With instant sights of bees and birds,
And talks with them in water-words;
And for whose nakedness the air
Weaves moony mists; and on whose hair,
Unfilleted, the night will set
That lone star as a coronet.
| The poems of Madison Cawein | |