Poems

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Eric Eldred, S.R. Ellison, and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team

POEMS

BY

MADISON CAWEIN

(SELECTED BY THE AUTHOR)

WITH
A FOREWORD BY WILLIAM DEAN HOWELLS

1911

INTRODUCTORY NOTE

The verses composing this volume have been selected by the author almost
entirely from the five-volume edition of his poems published by the
Bobbs-Merrill Company in 1907. A number have been included from the three
or four volumes which have been published since the appearance of the
Collected Poems; namely, three poems from the volume entitled "Nature
Notes and Impressions," E. P. Button & Co., New York; one poem from "The
Giant and the Star," Small, Maynard & Co., Boston; Section VII and part of
Section VIII of "An Ode" written in commemoration of the founding of the
Massachusetts Bay Colony, and published by John P. Morton & Co.,
Louisville, Ky.; some five or six poems from "New Poems," published in
London by Mr. Grant Richards in 1909; and three or four selections from
the volume of selections entitled "Kentucky Poems," compiled by Mr. Edmund
Gosse and published in London by Mr. Grant Richards in 19O2.
Acknowledgment and thanks for permission to reprint the various poems
included in this volume are herewith made to the different publishers.

The two poems, "in Arcady" and "The Black Knight" are new and are
published here for the first time.

In making the selections for the present book Mr. Cawein has endeavored to
cover the entire field of his poetical labors, which extends over a
quarter of a century. With the exception of his dramatic work, as
witnessed by one volume only, "The Shadow Garden," a book of plays four in
number, published in 1910, the selection herewith presented by us is, in
our opinion, representative of the author's poetical work.

CONTENTS

The Poetry of Madison Cawein.

Hymn to Spiritual Desire.
Beautiful-Bosomed, O Night.
Discovery.
O Maytime Woods.
The Redbird.
A Niello.
In May.
Aubade.
Apocalypse.
Penetralia.
Elusion.
Womanhood.
The Idyll of the Standing-Stone.
Noëra.
The Old Spring.
A Dreamer of Dreams.
Deep in the Forest
I. Spring on the Hills.
II. Moss and Fern.
III. The Thorn Tree.
IV. The Hamadryad.
Preludes.
May.
What Little Things.

In the Shadow of the Beeches.
Unrequited.
The Solitary.
A Twilight Moth.
The Old Farm.
The Whippoorwill.
Revealment.
Hepaticas.
The Wind of Spring.
The Catbird.
A Woodland Grave.
Sunset Dreams.
The Old Byway.
"Below the Sunset's Range of Rose".
Music of Summer.
Midsummer.
The Rain-Crow.
Field and Forest Call.
Old Homes.
The Forest Way.
Sunset and Storm.
Quiet Lanes.
One who loved Nature.
Garden Gossip.
Assumption.
Senorita.
Overseas.
Problems.
To a Windflower.
Voyagers.
The Spell.
Uncertainty.

In the Wood.
Since Then.
Dusk in the Woods.
Paths.
The Quest.
The Garden of Dreams.
The Path to Faery.
There are Faeries.
The Spirit of the Forest Spring.
In a Garden.
In the Lane.
The Window on the Hill.
The Picture.
Moly.
Poppy and Mandragora.
A Road Song.
Phantoms.
Intimations of the Beautiful.
October.
Friends.
Comradery.
Bare Boughs.
Days and Days.
Autumn Sorrow.
The Tree-Toad.
The Chipmunk.
The Wild Iris.
Drouth.
Rain.
At Sunset.
The Leaf-Cricket.
The Wind of Winter.

The Owlet.
Evening on the Farm.
The Locust.
The Dead Day.
The Old Water-Mill.
Argonauts.
"The Morn that breaks its Heart of Gold".
A Voice on the Wind.
Requiem.
Lynchers.
The Parting.
Feud.
Ku Klux.
Eidolons.
The Man Hunt.
My Romance.
A Maid who died Old.
Ballad of Low-Lie-Down.
Romance.
Amadis and Oriana.
The Rosicrucian.
The Age of Gold.
Beauty and Art.
The Sea Spirit.
Gargaphie.
The Dead Oread.
The Faun.
The Paphian Venus.
Oriental Romance.
The Mameluke.
The Slave.
The Portrait.

The Black Knight.
In Arcady.
Prototypes.
March.
Dusk.
The Winds.
Light and Wind.
Enchantment.
Abandoned.
After Long Grief.
Mendicants.
The End of Summer.
November.
The Death of Love.
Unanswered.
The Swashbuckler.
Old Sir John.
Uncalled.

THE POETRY OF MADISON CAWEIN

When a poet begins writing, and we begin liking his work, we own willingly
enough that we have not, and cannot have, got the compass of his talent.
We must wait till he has written more, and we have learned to like him
more, and even then we should hesitate his definition, from all that he
has done, if we did not very commonly qualify ourselves from the latest
thing he has done. Between the earliest thing and the latest thing there
may have been a hundred different things, and in his swan-long life of a
singer there would probably be a hundred yet, and all different. But we
take the latest as if it summed him up in motive and range and tendency.
Many parts of his work offer themselves in confirmation of our judgment,
while those which might impeach it shrink away and hide themselves, and
leave us to our precipitation, our catastrophe.

It was surely nothing less than by a catastrophe that I should have been
so betrayed in the volumes of Mr. Cawein's verse which reached me last
before the volume of his collected poems.... I had read his poetry and
loved it from the beginning, and in each successive expression of it, I
had delighted in its expanding and maturing beauty. I believe I had not
failed to own its compass, and when--

"He touched the tender stops of various quills,"

I had responded to every note of the changing music. I did not always
respond audibly either in public or in private, for it seemed to me that
so old a friend might fairly rest on the laurels he had helped bestow. But
when that last volume came, I said to myself, "This applausive silence has
gone on long enough. It is time to break it with open appreciation.
Still," I said, "I must guard against too great appreciation; I must mix
in a little depreciation, to show that I have read attentively,
critically, authoritatively." So I applied myself to the cheapest and
easiest means of depreciation, and asked, "Why do you always write Nature
poems? Why not Human Nature poems?" or the like. But in seizing upon an
objection so obvious that I ought to have known it was superficial, I had
wronged a poet, who had never done me harm, but only good, in the very
terms and conditions of his being a poet. I had not stayed to see that his
nature poetry was instinct with human poetry, with _his_ human poetry,
with mine, with yours. I had made his reproach what ought to have been his
finest praise, what is always the praise of poetry when it is not
artificial and formal. I ought to have said, as I had seen, that not one
of his lovely landscapes in which I could discover no human figure, but
thrilled with a human presence penetrating to it from his most sensitive
and subtle spirit until it was all but painfully alive with memories, with
regrets, with longings, with hopes, with all that from time to time
mutably constitutes us men and women, and yet keeps us children. He has
the gift, in a measure that I do not think surpassed in any poet, of
touching some smallest or commonest thing in nature, and making it live
from the manifold associations in which we have our being, and glow
thereafter with an inextinguishable beauty. His felicities do not seem
sought; rather they seem to seek him, and to surprise him with the delight
they impart through him. He has the inspiration of the right word, and the
courage of it, so that though in the first instant you may be challenged,
you may be revolted, by something that you might have thought uncouth, you
are presently overcome by the happy bravery of it, and gladly recognize
that no other word of those verbal saints or aristocrats, dedicated to the
worship or service of beauty, would at all so well have conveyed the sense
of it as this or that plebeian.

If I began indulging myself in the pleasure of quotation, or the delight
of giving proofs of what I say, I should soon and far transcend the modest
bounds which the editor has set my paper. But the reader may take it from
me that no other poet, not even of the great Elizabethan range, can
outword this poet when it comes to choosing some epithet fresh from the
earth or air, and with the morning sun or light upon it, for an emotion or
experience in which the race renews its youth from generation to
generation. He is of the kind of Keats and Shelley and Wordsworth and
Coleridge, in that truth to observance and experience of nature and the
joyous expression of it, which are the dominant characteristics of his
art. It is imaginable that the thinness of the social life in the Middle
West threw the poet upon the communion with the fields and woods, the days
and nights, the changing seasons, in which another great nature poet of
ours declares they "speak in various language." But nothing could be
farther from the didactic mood in which "communion with the various forms"
of nature casts the Puritanic soul of Bryant, than the mood in which this
German-blooded, Kentucky-born poet, who keeps throughout his song the
sense of a perpetual and inalienable youth, with a spirit as pagan as that
which breathes from Greek sculpture--but happily not more pagan. Most
modern poets who are antique are rather over-Hellenic, in their wish not
to be English or French, but there is nothing voluntary in Mr. Cawein's
naturalization in the older world of myth and fable; he is too sincerely
and solely a poet to be a _posseur;_ he has his eyes everywhere except on
the spectator, and his affair is to report the beauty that he sees, as if
there were no one by to hear.

An interesting and charming trait of his poetry is its constant theme of
youth and its limit within the range that the emotions and aspirations of
youth take. He might indeed be called the poet of youth if he resented
being called the poet of nature; but the poet of youth, be it understood,
of vague regrets, of "tears, idle tears," of "long, long thoughts," for
that is the real youth, and not the youth of the supposed hilarity, the
attributive recklessness, the daring hopes. Perhaps there is some such
youth as this, but it has not its home in the breast of any young poet,
and he rarely utters it; at best he is of a light melancholy, a smiling
wistfulness, and upon the whole, October is more to his mind than May.

In Mr. Cawein's work, therefore, what is not the expression of the world
we vainly and rashly call the inanimate world, is the hardly more
dramatized, and not more enchantingly imagined story of lovers, rather
unhappy lovers. He finds his own in this sort far and near; in classic
Greece, in heroic England, in romantic Germany, where the blue flower
blows, but not less in beautiful and familiar Kentucky, where the blue
grass shows itself equally the emblem of poetry, and the moldering log in
the cabin wall or the woodland path is of the same poetic value as the
marble of the ruined temple or the stone of the crumbling castle. His
singularly creative fancy breathes a soul into every scene; his touch
leaves everything that was dull to the sense before glowing in the light
of joyful recognition. He classifies his poems by different names, and
they are of different themes, but they are after all of that unity which I
have been trying, all too shirkingly, to suggest. One, for instance, is
the pathetic story which tells itself in the lyrical eclogue "One Day and
Another." It is the conversation, prolonged from meeting to meeting,
between two lovers whom death parts; but who recurrently find themselves
and each other in the gardens and the woods, and on the waters which they
tell each other of and together delight in. The effect is that which is
truest to youth and love, for these transmutations of emotion form the
disguise of self which makes passion tolerable; but mechanically the
result is a series of nature poems. More genuinely dramatic are such
pieces as "The Feud," "Ku Klux," and "The Lynchers," three out of many;
but one which I value more because it is worthy of Wordsworth, or of
Tennyson in a Wordsworthian mood, is "The Old Mill," where, with all the
wonted charm of his landscape art, Mr. Cawein gives us a strongly local
and novel piece of character painting.

I deny myself with increasing reluctance the pleasure of quoting the
stanzas, the verses, the phrases, the epithets, which lure me by scores
and hundreds in his poems. It must suffice me to say that I do not know
any poem of his which has not some such a felicity; I do not know any poem
of his which is not worth reading, at least the first time, and often the
second and the third time, and so on as often as you have the chance of
recurring to it. Some disappoint and others delight more than others; but
there is none but in greater or less measure has the witchery native to
the poet, and his place and his period.

It is only in order of his later time that I would put Mr. Cawein first
among those Midwestern poets, of whom he is the youngest. Poetry in the
Middle West has had its development in which it was eclipsed by the
splendor, transitory if not vain, of the California school. But it is
deeply rooted in the life of the region, and is as true to its origins as
any faithful portraiture of the Midwestern landscape could be; you could
not mistake the source of the poem or the picture. In a certain tenderness
of light and coloring, the poems would recall the mellowed masterpieces of
the older literatures rather than those of the New England school, where
conscience dwells almost rebukingly with beauty....

W. D. HOWELLS.

From _The North American Review_. Copyright, 1908, by the North American
Review Publishing Company.

POEMS

HYMN TO SPIRITUAL DESIRE

I

Mother of visions, with lineaments dulcet as numbers
Breathed on the eyelids of Love by music that slumbers,
Secretly, sweetly, O presence of fire and snow,
Thou comest mysterious,
In beauty imperious,
Clad on with dreams and the light of no world that we know:
Deep to my innermost soul am I shaken,
Helplessly shaken and tossed,
And of thy tyrannous yearnings so utterly taken,
My lips, unsatisfied, thirst;
Mine eyes are accurst
With longings for visions that far in the night are forsaken;
And mine ears, in listening lost,
Yearn, waiting the note of a chord that will never awaken.

II

Like palpable music thou comest, like moonlight; and far,--
Resonant bar upon bar,--
The vibrating lyre
Of the spirit responds with melodious fire,
As thy fluttering fingers now grasp it and ardently shake,
With laughter and ache,
The chords of existence, the instrument star-sprung,
Whose frame is of clay, so wonderfully molded of mire.

III

Vested with vanquishment, come, O Desire, Desire!
Breathe in this harp of my soul the audible angel of Love!
Make of my heart an Israfel burning above,
A lute for the music of God, that lips, which are mortal, but stammer!
Smite every rapturous wire
With golden delirium, rebellion and silvery clamor,
Crying--"Awake! awake!
Too long hast thou slumbered! too far from the regions of glamour
With its mountains of magic, its fountains of faery, the spar-sprung,
Hast thou wandered away, O Heart!"

Come, oh, come and partake
Of necromance banquets of Beauty; and slake
Thy thirst in the waters of Art,
That are drawn from the streams
Of love and of dreams.

IV

"Come, oh, come!
No longer shall language be dumb!
Thy vision shall grasp--
As one doth the glittering hasp
Of a sword made splendid with gems and with gold--
The wonder and richness of life, not anguish and hate of it merely.
And out of the stark
Eternity, awful and dark,
Immensity silent and cold,--
Universe-shaking as trumpets, or cymbaling metals,
Imperious; yet pensive and pearly
And soft as the rosy unfolding of petals,
Or crumbling aroma of blossoms that wither too early,--
The majestic music of God, where He plays
On the organ, eternal and vast, of eons and days."

BEAUTIFUL-BOSOMED, O NIGHT

I

Beautiful-bosomed, O Night, in thy noon
Move with majesty onward! soaring, as lightly
As a singer may soar the notes of an exquisite tune,
The stars and the moon
Through the clerestories high of the heaven, the firmament's halls:
Under whose sapphirine walls,
June, hesperian June,
Robed in divinity wanders. Daily and nightly
The turquoise touch of her robe, that the violets star,
The silvery fall of her feet, that lilies are,
Fill the land with languorous light and perfume.--
Is it the melody mute of burgeoning leaf and of bloom?
The music of Nature, that silently shapes in the gloom
Immaterial hosts
Of spirits that have the flowers and leaves in their keep,
Whom I hear, whom I hear?
With their sighs of silver and pearl?
Invisible ghosts,--
Each sigh a shadowy girl,--

Who whisper in leaves and glimmer in blossoms and hover
In color and fragrance and loveliness, breathed from the deep
World-soul of the mother,
Nature; who over and over,--
Both sweetheart and lover,--
Goes singing her songs from one sweet month to the other.

II

Lo! 'tis her songs that appear, appear,
In forest and field, on hill-land and lea,
As visible harmony,
Materialized melody,
Crystallized beauty, that out of the atmosphere
Utters itself, in wonder and mystery,
Peopling with glimmering essence the hyaline far and the near....

III

Behold how it sprouts from the grass and blossoms from flower and tree!
In waves of diaphanous moonlight and mist,
In fugue upon fugue of gold and of amethyst,
Around me, above me it spirals; now slower, now faster,
Like symphonies born of the thought of a musical master.--
O music of Earth! O God, who the music inspired!
Let me breathe of the life of thy breath!
And so be fulfilled and attired
In resurrection, triumphant o'er time and o'er death!

DISCOVERY

What is it now that I shall seek
Where woods dip downward, in the hills?--
A mossy nook, a ferny creek,
And May among the daffodils.

Or in the valley's vistaed glow,
Past rocks of terraced trumpet vines,
Shall I behold her coming slow,
Sweet May, among the columbines?

With redbud cheeks and bluet eyes,
Big eyes, the homes of happiness,
To meet me with the old surprise,
Her wild-rose hair all bonnetless.

Who waits for me, where, note for note,
The birds make glad the forest trees?--
A dogwood blossom at her throat,
My May among th' anemones.

As sweetheart breezes kiss the blooms,
And dews caress the moon's pale beams,
My soul shall drink her lips' perfumes,
And know the magic of her dreams.

O MAYTIME WOODS!

From the idyll "Wild Thorn and Lily"

O Maytime woods! O Maytime lanes and hours!
And stars, that knew how often there at night
Beside the path, where woodbine odors blew
Between the drowsy eyelids of the dusk,--
When, like a great, white, pearly moth, the moon
Hung silvering long windows of your room,--
I stood among the shrubs! The dark house slept.
I watched and waited for--I know not what!--
Some tremor of your gown: a velvet leaf's
Unfolding to caresses of the Spring:
The rustle of your footsteps: or the dew
Syllabling avowal on a tulip's lips
Of odorous scarlet: or the whispered word
Of something lovelier than new leaf or rose--
The word young lips half murmur in a dream:

Serene with sleep, light visions weigh her eyes:
And underneath her window blooms a quince.
The night is a sultana who doth rise
In slippered caution, to admit a prince,
Love, who her eunuchs and her lord defies.

Are these her dreams? or is it that the breeze
Pelts me with petals of the quince, and lifts
The Balm-o'-Gilead buds? and seems to squeeze
Aroma on aroma through sweet rifts
Of Eden, dripping through the rainy trees.

Along the path the buckeye trees begin
To heap their hills of blossoms.--Oh, that they
Were Romeo ladders, whereby I might win
Her chamber's sanctity!--where dreams must pray
About her soul!--That I might enter in!--

A dream,--and see the balsam scent erase
Its dim intrusion; and the starry night
Conclude majestic pomp; the virgin grace
Of every bud abashed before the white,
Pure passion-flower of her sleeping face.

THE REDBIRD

From "Wild Thorn and Lily"

Among the white haw-blossoms, where the creek
Droned under drifts of dogwood and of haw,
The redbird, like a crimson blossom blown
Against the snow-white bosom of the Spring,
The chaste confusion of her lawny breast,
Sang on, prophetic of serener days,
As confident as June's completer hours.
And I stood listening like a hind, who hears
A wood nymph breathing in a forest flute
Among the beech-boles of myth-haunted ways:
And when it ceased, the memory of the air
Blew like a syrinx in my brain: I made
A lyric of the notes that men might know:

He flies with flirt and fluting--
As flies a crimson star
From flaming star-beds shooting--
From where the roses are.

Wings past and sings; and seven
Notes, wild as fragrance is,--
That turn to flame in heaven,--
Float round him full of bliss.

He sings; each burning feather
Thrills, throbbing at his throat;
A song of firefly weather,
And of a glowworm boat:

Of Elfland and a princess
Who, born of a perfume,
His music rocks,--where winces
That rosebud's cradled bloom.

No bird sings half so airy,
No bird of dusk or dawn,
Thou masking King of Faery!
Thou red-crowned Oberon!

A NIËLLO

I

It is not early spring and yet
Of bloodroot blooms along the stream,
And blotted banks of violet,
My heart will dream.

Is it because the windflower apes
The beauty that was once her brow,
That the white memory of it shapes
The April now?

Because the wild-rose wears the blush
That once made sweet her maidenhood,
Its thought makes June of barren bush
And empty wood?

And then I think how young she died--
Straight, barren Death stalks down the trees,
The hard-eyed Hours by his side,
That kill and freeze.

II

When orchards are in bloom again
My heart will bound, my blood will beat,
To hear the redbird so repeat,
On boughs of rosy stain,
His blithe, loud song,--like some far strain
From out the past,--among the bloom,--
(Where bee and wasp and hornet boom)--
Fresh, redolent of rain.

When orchards are in bloom once more,
Invasions of lost dreams will draw
My feet, like some insistent law,
Through blossoms to her door:
In dreams I'll ask her, as before,
To let me help her at the well;
And fill her pail; and long to tell
My love as once of yore.

I shall not speak until we quit
The farm-gate, leading to the lane
And orchard, all in bloom again,
Mid which the bluebirds sit
And sing; and through whose blossoms flit
The catbirds crying while they fly:
Then tenderly I'll speak, and try
To tell her all of it.

And in my dream again she'll place
Her hand in mine, as oft before,--
When orchards are in bloom once more,--
With all her young-girl grace:
And we shall tarry till a trace
Of sunset dyes the heav'ns; and then--
We'll part; and, parting, I again
Shall bend and kiss her face.

And homeward, singing, I shall go
Along the cricket-chirring ways,
While sunset, one long crimson blaze
Of orchards, lingers low:
And my dead youth again I'll know,
And all her love, when spring is here--
Whose memory holds me many a year,
Whose love still haunts me so!

III

I would not die when Springtime lifts
The white world to her maiden mouth,
And heaps its cradle with gay gifts,
Breeze-blown from out the singing South:
Too full of life and loves that cling;
Too heedless of all mortal woe,
The young, unsympathetic Spring,
That Death should never know.

I would not die when Summer shakes
Her daisied locks below her hips,
And naked as a star that takes
A cloud, into the silence slips:
Too rich is Summer; poor in needs;
In egotism of loveliness
Her pomp goes by, and never heeds
One life the more or less.

But I would die when Autumn goes,
The dark rain dripping from her hair,
Through forests where the wild wind blows
Death and the red wreck everywhere:
Sweet as love's last farewells and tears
To fall asleep when skies are gray,
In the old autumn of my years,
Like a dead leaf borne far away.

IN MAY

I

When you and I in the hills went Maying,
You and I in the bright May weather,
The birds, that sang on the boughs together,
There in the green of the woods, kept saying
All that my heart was saying low,
"I love you! love you!" soft and low,--
And did you know?
When you and I in the hills went Maying.

II

There where the brook on its rocks went winking,
There by its banks where the May had led us,
Flowers, that bloomed in the woods and meadows,
Azure and gold at our feet, kept thinking
All that my soul was thinking there,
"I love you! love you!" softly there--
And did you care?
There where the brook on its rocks went winking.

III

Whatever befalls through fate's compelling,
Should our paths unite or our pathways sever,
In the Mays to come I shall feel forever
The wildflowers thinking, the wild birds telling,
In words as soft as the falling dew,
The love that I keep here still for you,
Both deep and true,
Whatever befalls through fate's compelling.

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