One Day & Another: A Lyrical Eclogue

One Day & Another: A Lyrical Eclogue
Madison Cawein

One Day & Another: A Lyrical Eclogue

TO

G. F. M

THIS VOLUME IS INSCRIBED IN MEMORY

OF MANY DAYS

What though I dreamed of mountain heights,
Of peaks, the barriers of the world,
Around whose tops the Northern Lights
And tempests are unfurled.

Mine are the footpaths leading through
Life's lowly fields and woods, – with rifts,
Above, of heaven's Eden blue, —
By which the violet lifts

Its shy appeal; and holding up
Its chaliced gold, like some wild wine,
Along the hillside, cup on cup,
Blooms bright the celandine.

Where soft upon each flowering stock
The butterfly spreads damask wings;
And under grassy loam and rock
The cottage cricket sings.

Where overhead eve blooms with fire,
In which the new moon bends her bow,
And, arrow-like, one white star by her
Burns through the afterglow.

I care not, so the sesame
I find; the magic flower there,
Whose touch unseals each mystery
In water, earth and air.

That in the oak tree lets me hear
Its heart's deep speech, its soul's wise words;
And to my mind makes crystal clear
The melodies of birds.

Why should I care, who live aloof
Beyond the din of life and dust,
While dreams still share my humble roof,
And love makes sweet my crust?

PART I

LATE SPRING

The mottled moth at eventide
Beats glimmering wings against the pane;
The slow, sweet lily opens wide,
White in the dusk like some dim stain;
The garden dreams on every side
And breathes faint scents of rain.
Among the flowering stocks they stand:
A crimson rose is in his hand.

1

Outside her garden. He waits musing

Herein the dearness of her is;
The thirty perfect days of June
Made one, in maiden loveliness
Were not more sweet to clasp and kiss,
With love not more in tune.

Ah me! I think she is too true,
Too spiritual for life's rough way;
For in her eyes her soul looks new —
Two bluet blossoms, watchet-blue,
Are not so pure as they.

So good, so beautiful is she,
So soft and white, so fond and fair,
Sometimes my heart fears she may be
Not long for me, and secretly
A sister of the air.

2

Dusk deepens. A whippoorwill calls

The whippoorwills are calling where
The golden west is graying;
"'Tis time," they say, "to meet him there —
Why are you still delaying?

"He waits you where the old beech throws
Its gnarly shadow over
Wood-violet and the bramble rose,