First Lines of Madison Julius Cawein
A woman, fair to look upon,Above his misered embers, gnarled and-gray,Among the fields the camomileAmong the meadows of Life's sad unease --At moonset when ghost speaks with ghost,At the moon's down-going, let it beBee-bitten in the orchard hungCalling, the heron flies athwart the blueCan freckled August, -- drowsing warm and blondeCome! look in the shadowy water here,Craft's silent sister and the daughter deepDark in the west the sunset's somber wrackDeath takes her hand and leads her through the wasteDeep in baby Mary's eyes,Deep in the dell I watched her as she rose,Do you remember how that night drew on?Earth hath her images of utterance,First came the rain, loud, with sonorous lips;Globed in Heav'n's tree of azure, golden mellowHere in the golden darknessHigh up in the organ-storyHow does the Autumn in her mind concludeI belt the morn with ribboned mist;I hear a song the wet leaves lispI hear the hoofs of horsesI looked upon a dead girl's face and heardI seemed to stand before a temple walledI shall not soon forget her and her eyes,In her dark eyes dreams poetize;In my dream last night it seemed I stoodIs it uneasy moonlight,It is the time when, by the forest falls,It seems that dawn will never climbIt was beneath a waning moon when all the woods were sear,It's Oh, for the hills, where the wind's some oneLast night I dreamed I saw you lying dead,Long hosts of sunlight, and the bright wind blowsLow belts of rushes ragged with the blast;Nevermore at doorways that are barkenNor time nor all his minionsNot all the bravery that day puts onNot as the eye hath seen, shall we beholdNot for thyself, but for the sake of Song,Not for you and me the pathNot till the wildman wind is shrill,Not while I live may I forgetNow to my lips lift thou some opiateO cheerly, cheerly by the roadO daughter of our Southern sun,O day, so sicklied o'er with night!O heart, that beat the bird's blithe blood,Oaks and a water. By the water -- eyes,Of our own selves God makes a glass, whereinSad o'er the hills the poppy sunset died.She gropes and hobbles, where the dropsied rocksShe is so dear the wildflowers nearShe is so much to me, to me,Shut in with phantoms of life's hollow hopes,So let it be. Thou wilt not say 't was I!So sick of dreams! the dreams, that stainSquat-nosed and broad, of big and pompous port;Ten-hundred deep the drifted daisies breakThe cross I bear no man shall know --The flute, whence Autumn's misty finger-tipsThe frail eidolons of all blossoms Spring,The hills look down on wood and stream,The hornets build in plaster-dropping rooms,The leaves are shivering on the thorn,The misty rain makes dim my face,The moon, like a round deviceThe pink rose drops its petals onThe rainy smell of a ferny dell,The rosy hills of her high breasts,The spirit Spring, in rainy raiment, metThe spirits of the forest,The sunlight that makes of the heavenThe way went under cedared gloomThe wind, that gives the rose a kissThere is a legend of an old Hartz towerThere is a music of immaculate love,There is no flower of wood or lea,There is no joy of earth that thrillsThere is no rhyme that is half so sweetThere, from its entrance, lost in matted vines, --These have a life that hath no part in death;This is the face of herThough red my blood hath left its trailTo help our tired hope to toil,Tonight he sees their star burn, dewy-bright,Under the brindled beech,Unto the soul's companionshipWe have no castles,We went by ways of bygone days,What is it now that I shall seek,What shall her silence keepWhat wood-god, on this water's mossy curb,When grave the twilight settles o'er my roof,When I go forth to greet the glad-faced Spring,When in dry hollows, hilled with hay,Where was I last Friday night?Wide in the west, a lakeWild ridge on ridge the wooded hills arise,With eyes hand-arched he looks intoWith helms of lightning, glittering in the skies,With her soft face half turned to me,With shadowy immortelles of memoryYes, there are some who may look on theseYour heart's a-tune with April and mine a-tune with June,