Weeds by the Wall Part 1

Weeds by the Wall.

by Madison J. Cawein.

FOREWORD.

_In the first rare spring of song, In my heart's young hours, In my youth 't was thus I sang, Choosing 'mid the flowers:--_

_"Fair the Dandelion is, But for me too lowly; And the winsome Violet Is, forsooth, too holy.

'But the Touchmenot?' Go to!

What! a face that's speckled Like a common milking-maid's, Whom the sun hath freckled.

Then the Wild-Rose is a flirt; And the trillium Lily, In her spotless gown, 's a prude, Sanctified and silly.

By her cap the Columbine, To my mind, 's too merry; Gossips, I would sooner wed Some plebeian Berry.

And the shy Anemone-- Well, her face shows sorrow; Pale, goodsooth! alive to-day, Dead and gone to-morrow.

Then that bold-eyed, buxom wench, Big and blond and lazy,-- She's been chosen overmuch!-- Sirs, I mean the Daisy.

Pleasant persons are they all, And their virtues many; Faith I know but good of each, And naught ill of any.

But I choose a May-apple; She shall be my Lady; Blooming, hidden and refined, Sweet in places shady."_

_In my youth 'twas thus I sang, In my heart's young hours, In the first rare spring of song, Choosing 'mid the flowers.

So I hesitated when Time alone was reckoned By the hours that Fancy smiled, Love and Beauty beckoned.

Hard it was for me to choose From the flowers that flattered; And the blossom that I chose Soon lay dead and scattered.

Hard I found it then, ah, me!

Hard I found the choosing; Harder, harder since I've found, Ah, too hard the losing.

Haply had I chosen then From the weeds that tangle Wayside, woodland and the wall Of my garden's angle, I had chosen better, yea, For these later hours-- Longer last the weeds, and oft Sweeter are than flowers._

WEEDS BY THE WALL.

A WILD IRIS.

That day we wandered 'mid the hills,--so lone Clouds are not lonelier,--the forest lay In emerald darkness 'round us. Many a stone And gnarly root, gray-mossed, made wild our way; And many a bird the glimmering light along Showered the golden bubbles of its song.

Then in the valley, where the brook went by, Silvering the ledges that it rippled from,-- An isolated slip of fallen sky, Epitomizing heaven in its sum,-- An iris bloomed--blue, as if, flower-disguised, The gaze of Spring had there materialized.

I have forgotten many things since then-- Much beauty and much happiness and grief; And toiled and dreamed among my fellow-men, Rejoicing in the knowledge life is brief.

"'T is winter now," so says each barren bough; And face and hair proclaim 't is winter now.

I would forget the gladness of that spring!

I would forget that day when she and I, Between the bird-song and the blossoming, Went hand in hand beneath the soft spring sky!-- Much is forgotten, yea--and yet, and yet, The things we would we never can forget.--

Nor I how May then minted treasuries Of crowfoot gold; and molded out of light The sorrel's cups, whose elfin chalices Of limpid spar were streaked with rosy white.

Nor all the stars of twinkling spiderwort, And mandrake moons with which her brows were girt.

But most of all, yea, it were well for me, Me and my heart, that I forget that flower, The wild blue iris, azure fleur-de-lis, That she and I together found that hour.

Its recollection can but emphasize The pain of loss, remindful of her eyes.

THE PATH BY THE CREEK.

There is a path that leads Through purple iron-weeds, By b.u.t.ton-bush and mallow Along a creek; A path that wildflowers hallow, That wild birds seek; Roofed thick with eglantine And grape and trumpet-vine.

This side, blackberries sweet Glow cobalt in the heat; That side, a creamy yellow, In summertime The pawpaws slowly mellow; And autumn's prime Strews red the Chickasaw, Persimmon brown and haw.

The glittering dragon-fly, A winged flash, goes by; And tawny wasp and hornet Seem gleams that drone; The beetle, like a garnet, Slips from the stone; And b.u.t.terflies float there, Spangling with gold the air.

Here the brown thrashers hide, The chat and cat-bird chide; The blue kingfisher houses Above the stream, And here the heron drowses Lost in his dream; The vireo's flitting note Haunts all the wild remote.

And now a cow's slow bell Tinkles along the dell; Where breeze-dropped petals winnow From blossomy limbs On waters, where the minnow, Faint-twinkling, swims; Where, in the root-arched shade, Slim prisms of light are laid.

When in the tangled thorn The new-moon hangs a horn, Or, 'mid the sunset's islands, Guides a canoe, The brown owl in the silence Calls, and the dew Beads here its...o...b.. of damp, Each one a firefly lamp.

Then when the night is still Here sings the whippoorwill; And stealthy sounds of crickets, And winds that pa.s.s, Whispering, through bramble thickets Along the gra.s.s, Faint with far scents of hay, Seem feet of dreams astray.

And where the water s.h.i.+nes Dark through tree-twisted vines, Some water-spirit, dreaming, Braids in her hair A star's reflection; seeming A jewel there; While all the sweet night long Ripples her quiet song....

Would I could imitate, O path, thy happy state!

Making my life all beauty, All bloom and beam; Knowing no other duty Than just to dream, And far from pain and woe Lead feet that come and go.

Leading to calm content, O'er ways the Master went, Through lowly things and humble, To peace and love; Teaching the lives that stumble To look above, Forget the world of toil And all its sad turmoil.

THE ROAD HOME.

Over the hills, as the pewee flies, Under the blue of the Southern skies; Over the hills, where the red-bird wings Like a scarlet blossom, or sits and sings:

Under the shadow of rock and tree, Where the warm wind drones with the honey-bee; And the tall wild-carrots around you sway Their lace-like flowers of cloudy gray:

By the black-cohosh with its pearly plume A nod in the woodland's odorous gloom; By the old rail-fence, in the elder's shade, That the myriad hosts of the weeds invade:

Where the b.u.t.terfly-weed, like a coal of fire, Blurs orange-red through bush and brier; Where the pennyroyal and mint smell sweet, And blackberries tangle the summer heat,

The old road leads; then crosses the creek, Where the minnow dartles, a silvery streak; Where the cows wade deep through the blue-eyed gra.s.s, And the flickering dragonflies gleaming pa.s.s.

That road is easy, however long, Which wends with beauty as toil with song; And the road we follow shall lead us straight Past creek and wood to a farmhouse gate.

Past hill and hollow, whence scents are blown Of dew-wet clover that scythes have mown; To a house that stands with porches wide And gray low roof on the green hill-side.