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WITH THE TIDE |
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|
 | The poems of Madison Cawein |  |
92
WITH THE TIDE
Once when the morning flashed athwart the breakers,
And on the foaming sand,
In exultation, by the ocean's acres,
Love took command.
And on the foaming sand,
In exultation, by the ocean's acres,
Love took command.
And so we sailed, æolian music melting
Around our silken sails;
The bubbled foam our prow of sandal pelting
With rainbow gales.
Around our silken sails;
The bubbled foam our prow of sandal pelting
With rainbow gales.
We watched the beach, with prickly cactus hateful,
And gnarled palmetto, pass
Beyond our vision; coasts where Life walked fateful
With Time's slow glass.
And gnarled palmetto, pass
Beyond our vision; coasts where Life walked fateful
With Time's slow glass.
Though hateful now, who could forget the beauty
Of dim and fragile shells,
That strewed the shores of Patience and of Duty
Like asphodels?
Of dim and fragile shells,
93
Like asphodels?
The rocks of Care, where Faith's meek flow'r suffices
To lead Love up and on,
To levels, that the Bible's lily spices,
Divine with dawn?
To lead Love up and on,
To levels, that the Bible's lily spices,
Divine with dawn?
On, on we sailed, Love laughing at to-morrow,
Past sunny isle and cape:
Three were we now:—My Soul and Love and—Sorrow,
A tall, dim shape.
Past sunny isle and cape:
Three were we now:—My Soul and Love and—Sorrow,
A tall, dim shape.
On, on we sailed, Love at the golden rudder,
On till the day waxed late,
When, lo! beside him, like an icy shudder,
Rose pallid Hate.
On till the day waxed late,
When, lo! beside him, like an icy shudder,
Rose pallid Hate.
On, on we sailed, Love seeing me, no other:
None crowned with bleeding thorn,
None armed with violence, and now another—
Unyielding Scorn.
None crowned with bleeding thorn,
None armed with violence, and now another—
Unyielding Scorn.
And then Love saw; Love, who had naught demanded,
Love saw, and summoned Pride:
The darker three, against the bright two banded,
Stood side by side.
Love saw, and summoned Pride:
94
Stood side by side.
On through the night our barque went drifting, drifting;
My stricken Soul alone;
A white face cold as moonlit marble lifting,
And still as stone.
My stricken Soul alone;
A white face cold as moonlit marble lifting,
And still as stone.
| The poems of Madison Cawein | |