Poems by Madison Julius Cawein Part 12

Or it's there in the whirl of their life I sit, Or dance in their houses with starlight lit, Their blossom houses, their flower houses, their elfin houses, of fern leaves knit, With fronded spires and domes: And there it is that my lost dreams flit, And the ghost of my childhood, smiling, roams With the faery children so dear to it.

IV

And it's there I hear that they all come true, The faery stories, whatever they do-- Elf and goblin, dear elf and goblin, loved elf and goblin, and all the crew Of witch and wizard and gnome and fay, And prince and princess, that wander through The storybooks we have put away, The faerytales that we loved and knew.

V

The face of Adventure lures you there, And the eyes of Danger bid you dare, While ever the bugles, the silver bugles, the far-off bugles of Elfland blare, The faery trumpets to battle blow; And you feel their thrill in your heart and hair, And you fain would follow and mount and go And march with the Faeries anywhere.

VI

And she--she rides at your side again, Your little sweetheart whose age is ten: She is the princess, the faery princess, the princess fair that you wors.h.i.+ped when You were a prince in a faerytale; And you do great deeds as you did them then, With your magic spear, and enchanted mail, Braving the dragon in his den.

VII

And you ask again,--"Oh, where shall we ride, Now that the monster is slain, my bride?"-- "Back to the cities, the firefly cities, the glowworm cities where we can hide, The beautiful cities of Faeryland.

And the light of my eyes shall be your guide, The light of my eyes and my snow-white hand-- And there forever we two will abide."

THERE ARE FAERIES

I

There are faeries, bright of eye, Who the wildflowers' warders are: Ouphes, that chase the firefly; Elves, that ride the shooting-star: Fays, who in a cobweb lie, Swinging on a moonbeam bar; Or who harness b.u.mblebees, Grumbling on the clover leas, To a blossom or a breeze-- That's their faery car.

If you care, you too may see There are faeries.--Verily, There are faeries.

II

There are faeries. I could swear I have seen them busy, where Roses loose their scented hair, In the moonlight weaving, weaving,

Out of starlight and the dew, Glinting gown and s.h.i.+mmering shoe; Or, within a glowworm lair, From the dark earth slowly heaving Mushrooms whiter than the moon, On whose tops they sit and croon, With their grig-like mandolins, To fair faery ladykins, Leaning from the windowsill Of a rose or daffodil, Listening to their serenade All of cricket-music made.

Follow me, oh, follow me!

Ho! away to Faerie!

Where your eyes like mine may see There are faeries.--Verily, There are faeries.

III

There are faeries. Elves that swing In a wild and rainbow ring Through the air; or mount the wing Of a bat to courier news To the faery King and Queen: Fays, who stretch the gossamers On which twilight hangs the dews;

Who, within the moonlight sheen, Whisper dimly in the ears Of the flowers words so sweet That their hearts are turned to musk And to honey; things that beat In their veins of gold and blue: Ouphes, that shepherd moths of dusk-- Soft of wing and gray of hue-- Forth to pasture on the dew.

IV

There are faeries; verily; Verily: For the old owl in the tree, Hollow tree, He who maketh melody For them tripping merrily, Told it me.

There are faeries.--Verily, There are faeries.

THE SPIRIT OF THE FOREST SPRING

Over the rocks she trails her locks, Her mossy locks that drip, drip, drip: Her sparkling eyes smile at the skies In friends.h.i.+p-wise and fellows.h.i.+p: While the gleam and glance of her countenance Lull into trance the woodland places, As over the rocks she trails her locks, Her dripping locks that the long fern graces.

She pours clear ooze from her heart's cool cruse, Its crystal cruse that drips, drips, drips: And all the day its limpid spray Is heard to play from her finger tips: And the slight, soft sound makes haunted ground Of the woods around that the sunlight laces, As she pours clear ooze from her heart's cool cruse, Its dripping cruse that no man traces.

She swims and swims with glimmering limbs, With lucid limbs that drip, drip, drip: Where beechen boughs build a leafy house, Where her eyes may drowse or her beauty trip: And the liquid beat of her rippling feet Makes three times sweet the forest mazes, As she swims and swims with glimmering limbs, With dripping limbs through the twilight hazes.

Then wrapped in deeps of the wild she sleeps, She whispering sleeps and drips, drips, drips: Where moon and mist wreathe neck and wrist, And, starry-whist, through the dark she slips: While the heavenly dream of her soul makes gleam The falls that stream and the foam that races, As wrapped in the deeps of the wild she sleeps, She dripping sleeps or starward gazes.

IN A GARDEN

The pink rose drops its petals on The moonlit lawn, the moonlit lawn; The moon, like some wide rose of white, Drops down the summer night.

No rose there is As sweet as this-- Thy mouth, that greets me with a kiss.

The lattice of thy cas.e.m.e.nt twines With jasmine vines, with jasmine vines; The stars, like jasmine blossoms, lie About the glimmering sky.

No jasmine tress Can so caress Like thy white arms' soft loveliness.

About thy door magnolia blooms Make sweet the glooms, make sweet the glooms; A moon-magnolia is the dusk Closed in a dewy husk.

However much, No bloom gives such Soft fragrance as thy bosom's touch.

The flowers blooming now will pa.s.s, And strew the gra.s.s, and strew the gra.s.s; The night, like some frail flower, dawn Will soon make gray and wan.

Still, still above, The flower of True love shall live forever, Love.

IN THE LANE

When the hornet hangs in the hollyhock, And the brown bee drones i' the rose; And the west is a red-streaked four-o'clock, And summer is near its close-- It's oh, for the gate and the locust lane, And dusk and dew and home again!

When the katydid sings and the cricket cries, And ghosts of the mists ascend; And the evening star is a lamp i' the skies, And summer is near its end-- It's oh, for the fence and the leafy lane, And the twilight peace and the tryst again!

When the owlet hoots in the dogwood tree, That leans to the rippling Run; And the wind is a wildwood melody, And summer is almost done-- It's oh, for the bridge and the bramble lane, And the fragrant hush and her hands again!

When fields smell sweet with the dewy hay, And woods are cool and wan, And a path for dreams is the Milky Way, And summer is nearly gone-- It's oh, for the rock and the woodland lane, And the silence and stars and her lips again!

When the weight of the apples breaks down the boughs, And muskmelons split with sweet; And the moon is a light in Heaven's house, And summer has spent its heat-- It's oh, for the lane, the trysting lane, The deep-mooned night and her love again!

THE WINDOW ON THE HILL

Among the fields the camomile Seems blown mist in the lightning's glare: Cool, rainy odors drench the air; Night speaks above; the angry smile Of storm within her stare.

The way that I shall take to-night Is through the wood whose branches fill The road with double darkness, till, Between the boughs, a window's light s.h.i.+nes out upon the hill.

The fence; and then the path that goes Around a trailer-tangled rock, Through puckered pink and hollyhock, Unto a latch-gate's unkempt rose, And door whereat I knock.