The Poems of Madison Cawein. Volume 2 (of 5). Cawein Madison Julius

      How many words in the asking!

      How easily I can grieve you!—

      My “yes” in a “no” was a-masking,

      Nor thought, dear, to deceive you.—

      A kiss?—the humming-bird happiness here

      In my heart consents.... But what are words,

      When the thought of two souls in speech accords?

      Affirmative, negative—what are they, dear?

      I wished to say “yes,” but somehow said “no.”

      The woman within me knew you would know,

      Knew that your heart would hear.

      So many words in the doing!—

      Therein you could not deceive me;

      Some things are sweeter for the pursuing:

      I knew what you meant, believe me.—

      Bunched bells of the blush pomegranate, to fix

      At your throat.... Six drops of fire they are....

      Will you look—where the moon and its following star

      Rise silvery over yon meadow ricks?

      While I hold—while I bend your head back, so....

      For I know it is “yes” though you whisper “no,”

      And my kisses, sweet, are six.

      Look!—where the fiery

      Glow-worm in briery

      Banks of the moon-mellowed bowers

      Sparkles—how hazily

      Pinioned and airily

      Delicate, warily,

      Drowsily, lazily,

      Flutter the moths to the flowers.

      White as the dreamiest

      Bud of the creamiest

      Rose in the garden that dozes,

      See how they cling to them!

      Held in the heart of their

      Hearts, like a part of their

      Perfume, they swing to them

      Wings that are soft as a rose is.

      Dim as the forming of

      Dew in the warming of

      Moonlight, they light on the petals;

      All is revealed to them;

      All!—from the sunniest

      Tips to the honiest

      Heart, whence they yield to them

      Spice, through the darkness that settles.

      So to our tremulous

      Souls come the emulous

      Agents of love; through whose power

      All that is best in us,

      All that is beautiful,

      Selfless and dutiful,

      Is manifest in us,

      Even as the scent of a flower.

      What makes you beautiful?

      Answer, now, answer!—

      Is it that dutiful

      Souls are all beautiful?

      Is it romance or

      Beauty of spirit,

      Which souls, that merit,

      Of heaven inherit?—

      Have you an answer?

      She, roguishly:

      What makes you lovable?

      Answer, now, answer!—

      Is it not provable

      That man is lovable

      Just because chance, or

      Nature, makes woman

      Love him?—Her human

      Part’s to illumine.—

      Have you an answer?

      Could I recall every joy that befell me

      There in the past with its anguish and bliss,

      Here in my heart it hath whispered to tell me,—

      They were no joys like this.

      Were it not well if our love could forget them,

      Veiling the Was with the dawn of the Is?

      Dead with the past we should never regret them,

      Being no joys like this.

      Now they are gone and the Present stands speechful,

      Ardent of word and of look and of kiss,—

      What though we know that their eyes are beseechful!—

      They were no joys like this.

      Were it not well to have more of the spirit,

      Living high Futures this earthly must miss?

      Less of the flesh, with the Past pining near it?

      Knowing no joys like this!

      We will leave reason,

      Sweet, for a season:

      Reason were treason

      Now that the nether

      Spaces are clad, oh,

      In silvery shadow—

      We will be glad, oh,

      Glad as this weather!

      Heart unto heart! where the moonlight is slanted,

      Let us believe that our souls are enchanted:—

      I in the castle-keep; you are the airy

      Prince who comes seeking me; love is the fairy

      Bringing us two together.

      Starlight in masses

      Over us passes;

      And in the grass is

      Many a flower.—

      Now will you tell me

      How ’d you enspell me?

      What once befell me

      There in your bower?

      Soul unto soul!—in the moon’s wizard glory,

      Let us believe we are parts in a story:—

      I am a poem; a poet you hear it

      Whispered in star and in flower; a spirit,

      Love, puts my soul in your power.

      Perhaps