The Cup of Comus: Fact and Fancy

Unconscious if it's heard!"
And so he went, singing, to his "Islands of Infinity."

    Rose de Vaux-Royer.
This edition is called the Friendship Edition, as it carries in its significance a testimonial of love and admiration for the author, extended by those who wish his last collected poems preserved for futurity.

Acknowledgment is due W. D. Howells, The North American Review, The Macmillan Co., Clinton Scollard and Edwin Markham for their courtesy.

BROKEN MUSIC

(IN MEMORIAM)

There it lies broken, as a shard, —
What breathed sweet music yesterday;
The source, all mute, has passed away
With its masked meanings still unmarred.

But melody will never cease!
Above the vast cerulean sea
Of heaven, created harmony
Rings and re-echoes its release!

So, thin dumb instrument that lies
All powerless, – [with spirit flown,
Beyond the veil of the Unknown
To chant its love-hymned litanies, – ]

Though it may thrill us here no more
With cadenced strain, – in other spheres
Will rise above the vanquished years
And breathe its music as before!
[Louisville Times]

    Written December 7th, 1914.
    Rose de Vaux-Royer.
The spirit of Madison Cawein passed at midnight from this world of intimate beauty "To stand a handsbreadth nearer Heaven and what is God!"

MADISON CAWEIN

(1865-1914)

The wind makes moan, the water runneth chill;
I hear the nymphs go crying through the brake;
And roaming mournfully from hill to hill
The maenads all are silent for his sake!

He loved thy pipe, O wreathed and piping Pan!
So play'st thou sadly, lone within thine hollow;
He was thy blood, if ever mortal man,
Therefore thou weepest – even thou, Apollo!

But O, the grieving of the Little Things,
Above the pipe and lyre, throughout the woods!
The beating of a thousand airy wings,
The cry of all the fragile multitudes!

The moth flits desolate, the tree-toad calls,
Telling the sorrow of the elf and fay;
The cricket, little harper of the walls,
Puts up his harp – hath quite forgot to play!

And risen on these winter paths anew,
The wilding blossoms make a tender sound;
The purple weed, the morning-glory blue,
And all the timid darlings of the ground!

Here, here the pain is sharpest! For he walked
As one of these – and they knew naught of fear,
But told him daily happenings and talked
Their lovely secrets in his list'ning ear!

Yet we do bid them grieve, and tell their grief;
Else were they thankless, else were all untrue;
O wind and stream, O bee and bird and leaf,
Mourn for your poet, with a long adieu!

    Margaret Steele Anderson.
    Louisville Post, December 12th, 1914.

THE CUP OF COMUS

PROEM

The Nights of song and story,
With breath of frost and rain,
Whose locks are wild and hoary,
Whose fingers tap the pane
With leaves, are come again.

The Nights of old October,
That hug the hearth and tell,
To child and grandsire sober,
Tales of what long befell
Of witch and warlock spell.

Nights, that, like gnome and faery,
Go, lost in mist and moon.
And speak in legendary
Thoughts or a mystic rune,
Much like the owlet's croon.