 | 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. |
|
| 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. |
POPPY AND MANDRAGORA |
|
|
| 1. |
| 2. |
| 3. |
| 4. |
| 5. |
| 6. |
| 7. |
| 8. |
| 9. |
| 10. |
| 11. |
| 12. |
| 13. |
| 14. |
| 15. |
|
 | The poems of Madison Cawein |  |
70
POPPY AND MANDRAGORA
Let us go far from here!
Here there is sadness in the early year:
Here sorrow is where joy went laughing late:
The sicklied face of heaven hangs like hate
Above the woodland and the meadowland;
And Spring hath taken fire in her hand
Of frost and made a dead bloom of her face,
Which was a flower of beauty once and grace,
And musk and color and serenest glow.
Delay not; let us go.
Here there is sadness in the early year:
Here sorrow is where joy went laughing late:
The sicklied face of heaven hangs like hate
Above the woodland and the meadowland;
And Spring hath taken fire in her hand
Of frost and made a dead bloom of her face,
Which was a flower of beauty once and grace,
And musk and color and serenest glow.
Delay not; let us go.
Let us go far away
Into the sunrise of a fairer day:
Where all the nights resign them to the moon,
And drug their souls with odor and soft tune,
And tell their dreams in starlight: where the hours
Teach immortality with fadeless flowers;
And all the day the bee weighs down the bloom,
And all the night the moth shakes strange perfume
From bell and bugle of the lily intense.
Let us go far from hence.
Into the sunrise of a fairer day:
Where all the nights resign them to the moon,
And drug their souls with odor and soft tune,
And tell their dreams in starlight: where the hours
Teach immortality with fadeless flowers;
And all the day the bee weighs down the bloom,
71
From bell and bugle of the lily intense.
Let us go far from hence.
Why should we sit and weep,
And yearn with weary eyelids still to sleep?
Forever hiding from our hearts the hate,
Death within death, life doth accumulate,
Like winter snows, along the barren leas
And sterile hills, whereon no lover sees
The crocus limn the beautiful in flame;
Or hyacinth and jonquil write the name
Of love in fire, beautiful to the eye.
Why should we sit and sigh?
And yearn with weary eyelids still to sleep?
Forever hiding from our hearts the hate,
Death within death, life doth accumulate,
Like winter snows, along the barren leas
And sterile hills, whereon no lover sees
The crocus limn the beautiful in flame;
Or hyacinth and jonquil write the name
Of love in fire, beautiful to the eye.
Why should we sit and sigh?
We will not stay and long,
Here where our souls are wasting for a song;
Where no bird sings; and, dim beneath the stars,
No silvery water strikes melodious bars;
And in the rocks and forest-covered hills
No quick-tongued echo from her grotto fills
With eery syllables the solitude—
The vocal image of the voice that wooed—
Echo, of sound the airy looking-glass.
Our souls are sick, alas!
Here where our souls are wasting for a song;
Where no bird sings; and, dim beneath the stars,
No silvery water strikes melodious bars;
And in the rocks and forest-covered hills
No quick-tongued echo from her grotto fills
With eery syllables the solitude—
The vocal image of the voice that wooed—
Echo, of sound the airy looking-glass.
Our souls are sick, alas!
72
What should we say to her,
To Hope, who in our hearts makes no sweet stir?
Who looks not on us nor gives thought unto:
Too busy with the birth of bud and dew,
And vague gold wings within the chrysalis;
Or Love, who will not miss us; had no kiss
To give your soul or the sad soul of me,
Who gave our hearts to her in poesy,
Long since, and wear her badge of service still.
Yea, we have served our fill.
To Hope, who in our hearts makes no sweet stir?
Who looks not on us nor gives thought unto:
Too busy with the birth of bud and dew,
And vague gold wings within the chrysalis;
Or Love, who will not miss us; had no kiss
To give your soul or the sad soul of me,
Who gave our hearts to her in poesy,
Long since, and wear her badge of service still.
Yea, we have served our fill.
We will go far away.
Song will not care, who slays our souls each day
With the dark daggers of indignant eyes,
And lips' sharp silence! . . . Had she sighed us lies,
Not passionate, yet falsely tremulous;
And lent her mouth to ours, in mockery; thus
Smiled from calm eyes a loveless negative;
Then, then our hearts had taught themselves to live
Feeding their love on her indifference.
But no!—so let us hence.
Song will not care, who slays our souls each day
With the dark daggers of indignant eyes,
And lips' sharp silence! . . . Had she sighed us lies,
Not passionate, yet falsely tremulous;
And lent her mouth to ours, in mockery; thus
Smiled from calm eyes a loveless negative;
Then, then our hearts had taught themselves to live
Feeding their love on her indifference.
But no!—so let us hence.
So be the Bible shut
Of Love and Beauty, and their wisdom but
A clasp of memory!—We will not seek
The light that came not when our souls were weak
With longing, and the darkness gave no sign
Of star-born comfort. Nay! why should we whine
Dull psalms of patience, or hosannas of
Old hope and dreary canticles of love?—
Leave us alone. My soul hath long supposed
For us God's book was closed.
Of Love and Beauty, and their wisdom but
A clasp of memory!—We will not seek
73
With longing, and the darkness gave no sign
Of star-born comfort. Nay! why should we whine
Dull psalms of patience, or hosannas of
Old hope and dreary canticles of love?—
Leave us alone. My soul hath long supposed
For us God's book was closed.
| The poems of Madison Cawein | |