Days and Dreams: Poems. Cawein Madison Julius

      If love I have had of thee thou hadst of me,

      No loss was in giving it over;

      Could I give aught but that I had of thee,

      Being no more than thy lover?

      And let it cease. When what befalls befalls,

      You cannot love me less,

      Loving me much now. Neither weeks nor walls,

      With bitterest distress,

      Shall all avail. Despair will find reprieve,

      Though dark the soul be tossed,

      In past possession of that love you grieve,

      The love which you have lost.

      Ponder the morning, or the midnight moon,

      The wilding of the wold,

      The morning slitting from night's brown cocoon

      Wide wings of flaxen gold:

      The moon that, had not darkness been before,

      Had never shone to lead;

      And think that, though you are, you are not poor,

      Since you have loved indeed.

      From flower to star read upward; you shall see

      The purposes of loss,

      Deep hierograms of gracious deity,

      And comfort in your cross.

      Sunday shall we ride together?

      Not the root-rough, rambling way

      Through the woods we went that day,

      In the sultry summer weather,

      Past the Methodist Camp-Meeting,

      Where religion helped the hymn

      Gather volume, and a slim

      Minister with textful greeting

      Welcomed us and still expounded.

      From the service on the hill

      We had rode three hills and still

      Far away the singing sounded.

      Nor that road through weed and berry

      Drowsy days led me and you

      To the old-time barbecue,

      Where the country-side made merry.

      Dusty vehicles together;

      Darkies with the horses by

      'Neath the soft Kentucky sky,

      And a smell of bark and leather;

      When you smiled, "Our modern tourney:

      Gallantry and politics

      Dinner, dance and intermix."

      As we went the homeward journey

      'Twixt hot chaparrals and thickets,

      Heard brisk fiddles, scraping still,

      Drone and thump the quaint quadrille,

      Like a worried band of crickets. —

      Neither road. The shady quiet

      Of that way by beech and birch,

      Winding to the ruined church

      On the Fork that sparkles by it.

      Where the silent Sundays listen

      For the preacher whom we bring,

      In our hearts to preach and sing

      Week-day shade to Sabbath glisten.

      Yes, to-morrow; when the morn,

      Pentecost of flame, uncloses

      Portals that the stars adorn,

      Whence a golden presence throws his

      Fiery swords and burning roses

      At the wide wood's world of wall,

      Spears of sparkle at each fall;

      Then together let us ride

      Down deep-wood cathedral places,

      Where the pilgrim wild-flowers hide,

      Praying Sabbath in their faces;

      Where in truest untaught phrases,

      Worship in each rhythmic word,

      Sings no migratory bird…

      Pearl on pearl the high stars dight

      Jewels of divine devices

      'Round the Afric throat of Night;

      Where yon misty glimmer rises

      Soon the white moon crystallizes

      Out of darkness, like a spell. —

      Late, 't is late. Till dawn, farewell.

      Now rests the season in forgetfulness,

      Careless in beauty of maturity;

      The ripened roses 'round brown temples, she

      Fulfils completion in a dreamy guess:

      Now Time grants night the more and day the less;

      The gray decides; and brown

      Dim golds and reds in dulling greens express

      Themselves and broaden as the year goes down.

      Sadder the croft where, thrusting gray and high

      Their balls of seeds, the hoary onions die,

      Where, Falstaff-like, buff-bellied pumpkins lie:

      Deeper each wilderness;

      Sadder the blue of hills that lounge along

      The lonesome west; sadder the song

      Of the wild red-bird in the leafage yellow,

      Deeper and dreamier, aye!

      Than woods or waters, leans the languid sky

      Above lone orchards where the cider-press

      Drips