 | 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. |
ANALOGIES |
|
|
| 1. |
| 2. |
| 3. |
| 4. |
| 5. |
| 6. |
| 7. |
| 8. |
| 9. |
| 10. |
| 11. |
| 12. |
| 13. |
| 14. |
| 15. |
|
 | The poems of Madison Cawein |  |
101
ANALOGIES
Of Rosamond the beautiful, of her
The joy and pride of Cunimund,—last king
Of the fierce Gepidæ,—a warrior
Such as the old-world minstrels loved to sing,
To Alboin, Prince of Lombardy,—at war
With Cunimund her father,—fame did bring
Report of such proud loveliness and grace
That he had loved her ere he saw her face.
The joy and pride of Cunimund,—last king
Of the fierce Gepidæ,—a warrior
Such as the old-world minstrels loved to sing,
To Alboin, Prince of Lombardy,—at war
With Cunimund her father,—fame did bring
Report of such proud loveliness and grace
That he had loved her ere he saw her face.
War was between them and the hate of thrones:
For he had slain a son of Turismund
And brother of King Cunimund. His bones
Were as a wall between desire—unsunned
Of such encouragement as young Love owns;
Young Love, before the ruined lips that stunned
Appeal with dead defiance, and the grim
Confrontment mocking as the hopes of him.—
For he had slain a son of Turismund
And brother of King Cunimund. His bones
Were as a wall between desire—unsunned
Of such encouragement as young Love owns;
Young Love, before the ruined lips that stunned
Appeal with dead defiance, and the grim
Confrontment mocking as the hopes of him.—
Such oft is Life! that, standing with despair,
Looks on some crime,—as looked the conqueror
Of Rosamond,—ere goaded on to dare
Fate through the stern arbitrament of war:
Death smiles within the danger of her hair;
Defeat, more deadly than the wild Avar,
Looks, armored, from her eyes; and in her mouth
An exarch marshals legions from the south.
Looks on some crime,—as looked the conqueror
102
Fate through the stern arbitrament of war:
Death smiles within the danger of her hair;
Defeat, more deadly than the wild Avar,
Looks, armored, from her eyes; and in her mouth
An exarch marshals legions from the south.
Yet, should he so prevail against her might—
Her woman Pride, her hosts of beautiful
Angers and scorns—that she be forced, some night,
To pledge him faith in Hate's full cup, a skull—
What though he sees Revenge writ, fiery white,
Upon her brow! revenge, that hides a dull
Poison for sleep, or dagger all prepared!—
Life writes not Failure where Fate writes He dared.
Her woman Pride, her hosts of beautiful
Angers and scorns—that she be forced, some night,
To pledge him faith in Hate's full cup, a skull—
What though he sees Revenge writ, fiery white,
Upon her brow! revenge, that hides a dull
Poison for sleep, or dagger all prepared!—
Life writes not Failure where Fate writes He dared.
| The poems of Madison Cawein | |