To James Whitcomb Riley With Admiration And Regard

O lyrist of the lowly and the true,
    The song I sought for you
Hides yet unsung. What hope for me to find,
    Lost in the dædal mind,
The living utterance with lovely tongue!
    To say, as erst was sung
By Ariosto of Knight-errantry,
    Through lands of Poesy,
Song's Paladin, knight of the dream and day,
    The wizard shield you sway
Of that Atlantes power, sweet and terse,
    The skyey-builded verse:
The shield that dazzles, brilliant with surprise,
    Our unanointed eyes.
Oh, had I written as 't were worthy you,
    Each line, a spark of dew,
As once Ferdusi shone in Persia,
    Had strung each rosy spray
Of the unfolding flower of each song;
    And Iran's bulbul tongue
Had sobbed its heart out o'er the fountain's slab
    In gardens of Afrasiab.

Madison Julius Cawein

Madison Julius Cawein was born on March 23, 1865, in Louisville, Kentucky and died on December 8, 1914. Known as the “Keats of Kentucky,” his poetry often focused on nature, mythology, and the lush landscapes of his home state. Throughout his lifetime, Cawein published more than 30 books of poetry. He is remembered for his vivid and descriptive style and his ability to capture the beauty of the natural world. His works provide a window into the pastoral and often mystical world of the late 19th and early 20th centuries.

Madison Julius Cawein

Success

Madison Julius Cawein, Simple Poetry

The Old Spring

Madison Julius Cawein, Simple Poetry

The Golden Hour.

Madison Julius Cawein, Simple Poetry

Prototypes

Madison Julius Cawein, Simple Poetry

English

Suggested Poems

Explore a curated selection of verses that share themes, styles, and emotional resonance with the poem you've just read.

A Southern Singer.

    Written In Madison Caweln's "Lyrics and Idyls."

    Herein are blown from out the South
    Songs blithe as those of Pan's pursed mouth -
    As sweet in voice as, in perfume,
    The night-breath of magnolia-bloom.

    Such sumptuous languor lures the sense -
    Such luxury of indolence -
    The eyes blur as a nymph's might blur,
    With water-lilies watching her.

    You waken, thrilling at the trill
    Of some wild bird that seems to spill
    The silence full of winey drips
    Of song that Fancy sips and sips.

    Betimes, in brambled lanes wherethrough
    The chipmunk stripes himself from view,
    You pause to lop a creamy spray
    Of elder-blossoms by the way.

    Or where the morning dew is yet
    Gra...

James Whitcomb Riley

Preludes

I.

There is no rhyme that is half so sweet
As the song of the wind in the rippling wheat;
There is no metre that's half so fine
As the lilt of the brook under rock and vine;
And the loveliest lyric I ever heard
Was the wildwood strain of a forest bird.
If the wind and the brook and the bird would teach
My heart their beautiful parts of speech,
And the natural art that they say these with,
My soul would sing of beauty and myth
In a rhyme and metre that none before
Have sung in their love, or dreamed in their lore,
And the world would be richer one poet the more.

II.

A thought to lift me up to those
Sweet wildflowers of the pensive woods;
The lofty, lowly attitudes
Of bluet and of bramble-rose:
To lift me where my mind may reach<...

Madison Julius Cawein

Carissima Mea.

I look upon my lady's face,
And, in the world about me, see
No face like hers in any place:
Therefore it is I sing her praise.

It is not made, as others sing
Of their dear loves, like ivory,
But like a wild rose in the spring:
Therefore it is I sing her praise.

Her brow is low and very fair,
And o'er it, smooth and shadowy,
Lies deep the darkness of her hair:
Therefore it is I sing her praise.

Beneath her brows her eyes are gray,
And gaze out glad and fearlessly,
Their wonder haunts me night and day:
Therefore it is I sing her praise.

Her eyebrows, arched and delicate,
Twin curves of pencilled ebony,
Within their spans contain my fate:
Therefore it is I sing her praise.

Her mo...

Madison Julius Cawein

Preludes

I

There is no rhyme that is half so sweet
As the song of the wind in the rippling wheat;
There is no metre that's half so fine
As the lilt of the brook under rock and vine;
And the loveliest lyric I ever heard
Was the wildwood strain of a forest bird. -
If the wind and the brook and the bird would teach
My heart their beautiful parts of speech,
And the natural art that they say these with,
My soul would sing of beauty and myth
In a rhyme and metre that none before
Have sung in their love, or dreamed in their lore,
And the world would be richer one poet the more.

II

A thought to lift me up to those
Sweet wildflowers of the pensive woods;
The lofty, lowly attitudes
Of bluet and of bramble-rose:
To lift me where my mind may reach<...

Madison Julius Cawein

To Robert Burns

Sweet Singer that I loe the maist
O' ony, sin' wi' eager haste
I smacket bairn-lips ower the taste
O' hinnied sang,
I hail thee, though a blessed ghaist
In Heaven lang!

For weel I ken, nae cantie phrase,
Nor courtly airs, nor lairdly ways,
Could gar me freer blame, or praise,
Or proffer hand,
Where "Rantin' Robbie" and his lays
Thegither stand.

And sae these hamely lines I send,
Wi' jinglin' words at ilka end,
In echo o' the sangs that wend
Frae thee to me
Like simmer-brooks, wi mony a bend
O' wimplin' glee.

In fancy, as wi' dewy een,
I part the clouds aboon the scene
Where thou wast born, and peer atween,
I see nae spot
In a' the Hielands half sae green
And unforgot?

I see nae storied castle-hall...

James Whitcomb Riley

The Troubadour, Pons De Capdeuil

In Provence, to his Lady, Azalis de Mercoeur in Anjou

The gray dawn finds me thinking still
Of thee who hadst my thoughts all night;
Of thee, who art my lute's sweet skill,
And of my soul the only light;
My star of song to whom I turn
My face and for whose love I yearn.

Thou dost not know thy troubadour
Lies sick to death; no longer sings:
That this alone may work his cure
To feel thy white hand, weighed with rings,
Smoothed softly through his heavy hair,
Or resting with the old love there.

To feel thy warm cheek laid to his;
Thy bosom fluttering with love;
Then on his eyes and lips thy kiss
Thy kiss alone were all enough
To heal his heart, to cure his soul,
And make his mind and body whole.

The drought, these three month...

Madison Julius Cawein