 | 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. |
SLEEP |
|
|
| 1. |
| 2. |
| 3. |
| 4. |
| 5. |
| 6. |
| 7. |
| 8. |
| 9. |
| 10. |
| 11. |
| 12. |
| 13. |
| 14. |
| 15. |
|
 | The poems of Madison Cawein |  |
148
SLEEP
Look in my eyes!—Oh, the mild and mysterious
Deeps of thine eyes that are holy with rest!—
Sigh to me! yea, as thy kinsman, imperious
Love, might, with lips that are soft and delirious,
Soft with such comfort as blesses the blessed.
Fold all my soul in the mild and mysterious
Might of thy rest.
Deeps of thine eyes that are holy with rest!—
Sigh to me! yea, as thy kinsman, imperious
Love, might, with lips that are soft and delirious,
Soft with such comfort as blesses the blessed.
Fold all my soul in the mild and mysterious
Might of thy rest.
All the night for thy love, all the night! while the gladdening
Presence of darkness, as legends of old,
Wraps me in poesy: none of the saddening
Prose of the day that is sad with the maddening
Soul of unrest that is heartless and cold.
All the night for thy love, all the night! and its gladdening
Beauty of old.
Presence of darkness, as legends of old,
Wraps me in poesy: none of the saddening
Prose of the day that is sad with the maddening
Soul of unrest that is heartless and cold.
All the night for thy love, all the night! and its gladdening
Beauty of old.
Scorn is not thine nor is hate; but the bubbling
Fountains of strength that are youthful as morn's:
Hurt is not thine of remembrance; nor troubling
Sorrows of waking whose fingers keep doubling—
Pressing on temples life's cares that are thorns.
Thine are the hours of the stars and the bubbling
Wells of the morns.
Fountains of strength that are youthful as morn's:
149
Sorrows of waking whose fingers keep doubling—
Pressing on temples life's cares that are thorns.
Thine are the hours of the stars and the bubbling
Wells of the morns.
Pride and the passions and labors that worry us
Mix with and brutalize; envy and spite
Of the heart; and the griefs of the soul that oft hurry us
On, with the iron of anguish, and bury us,—
Touch them and calm with thy fingers of white.
Make all these passions and pains, that oft worry us,
Night with the night.
Mix with and brutalize; envy and spite
Of the heart; and the griefs of the soul that oft hurry us
On, with the iron of anguish, and bury us,—
Touch them and calm with thy fingers of white.
Make all these passions and pains, that oft worry us,
Night with the night.
Silence hath built thee a mansion, where flowery
Fields of the visions are poppied with dreams;
Where the high mountains of quiet loom showery
Under the stars; and the valleys of bowery
Lotus and moly gleam, misty with streams:
Where slumber's halcyon waters third flowery
Pastures of dreams.
Fields of the visions are poppied with dreams;
Where the high mountains of quiet loom showery
Under the stars; and the valleys of bowery
Lotus and moly gleam, misty with streams:
Where slumber's halcyon waters third flowery
Pastures of dreams.
Come to me, Spirit!—Ah, wilt thou not stay for me?
Stay for me! fill me with rest as with prayer!
Mother of hope, let thy touch soothe away for me
All of life's weariness! make all the day for me
Dim with forgetting! the day and its care!
Come to me! Mix with the soul of me! Stay for me,
Cure me like prayer!
150
Mother of hope, let thy touch soothe away for me
All of life's weariness! make all the day for me
Dim with forgetting! the day and its care!
Come to me! Mix with the soul of me! Stay for me,
Cure me like prayer!
| The poems of Madison Cawein | |