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 | The poems of Madison Cawein |  |
VII
The hornet stings the garnet grape,
Whose hull splits with the honeyed heat;—
Fall hears the long loud locust beat
Its song out, where, a girl-like shape,
She watches, through the wine-press' crust,
Sweet trickle of the purple must.
Whose hull splits with the honeyed heat;—
Fall hears the long loud locust beat
7
She watches, through the wine-press' crust,
Sweet trickle of the purple must.
The bee clings to the scarlet peach,
That thrusts a downy cheek between
The leaves of golden gray and green;—
Fall walks where orchard branches reach
Abundance to her hands, or drop
Their ripeness down to make her stop.
That thrusts a downy cheek between
The leaves of golden gray and green;—
Fall walks where orchard branches reach
Abundance to her hands, or drop
Their ripeness down to make her stop.
The bitter-sweet and sassafras
Hang yellow pods and crimson-black
Along the rails, that ramble back
Among the corn where she must pass;
Where, on her hair, a golden haze,
Showers the pollen of the maize.
Hang yellow pods and crimson-black
Along the rails, that ramble back
Among the corn where she must pass;
Where, on her hair, a golden haze,
Showers the pollen of the maize.
Not till 'mid sad, chill scents all day
The green leaf-cricket chirrs its tune,
And underneath the hunter's-moon
The oxen plod through clinging clay,
Or when, beyond the dripping pane,
The night sets in with whirling rain:
The green leaf-cricket chirrs its tune,
And underneath the hunter's-moon
The oxen plod through clinging clay,
Or when, beyond the dripping pane,
The night sets in with whirling rain:
Not till ripe walnuts rain their spice
Of frost-nipped nuts down, and the oak
Pelts with brown acorns, stroke on stroke,
The creek that slides through hints of ice;
And in the lane the wagon pulls,
Crunching, through thick-strewn hickory hulls:
Of frost-nipped nuts down, and the oak
8
The creek that slides through hints of ice;
And in the lane the wagon pulls,
Crunching, through thick-strewn hickory hulls:
Not till through frosty fogs, which hold
Wet mornings with their phantom night,
Like torches glimmering through the white,
The woods burn crimson blurs and gold,
And through the mist come muffled sounds
Of hunting-horns and baying hounds:
Wet mornings with their phantom night,
Like torches glimmering through the white,
The woods burn crimson blurs and gold,
And through the mist come muffled sounds
Of hunting-horns and baying hounds:
Shall I on hills, where looming pines
Against vermilion sunsets stand—
Black ruins in a blood-red land—
In wrecks of sumac and wild vines,
Go seek her, where she lies asleep,
Her dark, sad eyes too tired to weep.
Against vermilion sunsets stand—
Black ruins in a blood-red land—
In wrecks of sumac and wild vines,
Go seek her, where she lies asleep,
Her dark, sad eyes too tired to weep.
| The poems of Madison Cawein | |