Poems. Cawein Madison Julius

        When orchards are in bloom again

        My heart will bound, my blood will beat,

        To hear the redbird so repeat,

            On boughs of rosy stain,

        His blithe, loud song,—like some far strain

        From out the past,—among the bloom,—

        (Where bee and wasp and hornet boom)—

            Fresh, redolent of rain.

        When orchards are in bloom once more,

        Invasions of lost dreams will draw

        My feet, like some insistent law,

            Through blossoms to her door:

        In dreams I'll ask her, as before,

        To let me help her at the well;

        And fill her pail; and long to tell

            My love as once of yore.

        I shall not speak until we quit

        The farm-gate, leading to the lane

        And orchard, all in bloom again,

            Mid which the bluebirds sit

        And sing; and through whose blossoms flit

        The catbirds crying while they fly:

        Then tenderly I'll speak, and try

            To tell her all of it.

        And in my dream again she'll place

        Her hand in mine, as oft before,—

        When orchards are in bloom once more,—

            With all her young-girl grace:

        And we shall tarry till a trace

        Of sunset dyes the heav'ns; and then—

        We'll part; and, parting, I again

            Shall bend and kiss her face.

        And homeward, singing, I shall go

        Along the cricket-chirring ways,

        While sunset, one long crimson blaze

            Of orchards, lingers low:

        And my dead youth again I'll know,

        And all her love, when spring is here—

        Whose memory holds me many a year,

            Whose love still haunts me so!

        I would not die when Springtime lifts

            The white world to her maiden mouth,

        And heaps its cradle with gay gifts,

            Breeze-blown from out the singing South:

        Too full of life and loves that cling;

            Too heedless of all mortal woe,

        The young, unsympathetic Spring,

            That Death should never know.

        I would not die when Summer shakes

            Her daisied locks below her hips,

        And naked as a star that takes

            A cloud, into the silence slips:

        Too rich is Summer; poor in needs;

            In egotism of loveliness

        Her pomp goes by, and never heeds

            One life the more or less.

        But I would die when Autumn goes,

            The dark rain dripping from her hair,

        Through forests where the wild wind blows

            Death and the red wreck everywhere:

        Sweet as love's last farewells and tears

            To fall asleep when skies are gray,

        In the old autumn of my years,

            Like a dead leaf borne far away.

        When you and I in the hills went Maying,

          You and I in the bright May weather,

          The birds, that sang on the boughs together,

        There in the green of the woods, kept saying

          All that my heart was saying low,

          "I love you! love you!" soft and low,—

            And did you know?

        When you and I in the hills went Maying.

        There where the brook on its rocks went winking,

          There by its banks where the May had led us,

          Flowers, that bloomed in the woods and meadows,

        Azure and gold at our feet, kept thinking

          All that my soul was thinking there,

          "I love you! love you!" softly there—

            And did you care?

        There where the brook on its rocks went winking.

        Whatever befalls through fate's compelling,

          Should our paths unite or our pathways sever,

          In the Mays to come I shall feel forever

        The wildflowers thinking, the wild birds telling,

            In words as soft as the falling dew,

            The love that I keep here still for you,

              Both deep and true,

        Whatever befalls through fate's compelling.

        Awake! the dawn is on the hills!

          Behold, at her cool throat a rose,

          Blue-eyed and beautiful she goes,

        Leaving her steps in daffodils.—

        Awake! arise! and let me see

          Thine eyes, whose deeps epitomize

        All dawns that were or are to be,

          O love, all Heaven in thine eyes!—

        Awake! arise! come down to me!

        Behold! the dawn is up: behold!

          How all the birds around her float,

          Wild rills of music, note on note,

        Spilling the air with mellow gold.—

        Arise! awake! and, drawing near,

          Let me but hear thee and rejoice!

        Thou, who keep'st captive, sweet and clear,

          All