Unqualified

Not his the part to win the goal,
The flaming goal that flies before,
Into whose course the apples roll
Of self that stay his feet the more.

Beyond himself he shall not win
Whose flesh is as a driven dust,
That his own soul must wander in,
Seeing no farther than his lust.

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

Bare Boughs

Madison Julius Cawein, Simple Poetry

Meeting In Summer

Madison Julius Cawein, Simple Poetry

Loyalty

Madison Julius Cawein, Simple Poetry

The Alcalde's Daughter.

Madison Julius Cawein, Simple Poetry

English

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Achievement

He held himself splendidly forward
Both early and late;
The aim of his purpose was starward,
To master his fate:
So he wrought and he toiled and he waited,
Till he rose o'er the hordes that he hated,
And stood on the heights, as was fated,
Made one of the great.

Then lo! on the top of the mountain,
With walls that were wide,
A city! from which, as a fountain,
Rose voices that cried:
"He comes! Let us forth now to meet him!
Both mummer and priest let us greet him!
In the city he built let us seat him
On the throne of his pride!"

Then out of the city he builded,
Of shadows it seems,
From gates that his fancy had gilded
With thought's brightest gleams,
Strange mimes and chimeras came trooping,
With moping and mowing and stoopi...

Madison Julius Cawein

Afterword.

The old enthusiasms
Are dead, quite dead, in me;
Dead the aspiring spasms
Of art and poesy,
That opened magic chasms,
Once, of wild mystery,
In youth's rich Araby.
That opened magic chasms.

The longing and the care
Are mine; and, helplessly,
The heartache and despair
For what can never be.
More than my mortal share
Of sad mortality,
It seems, God gives to me,
More than my mortal share.

O world! O time! O fate!
Remorseless trinity!
Let not your wheel abate
Its iron rotary!
Turn round! nor make me wait,
Bound to it neck and knee,
Hope's final agony!
Turn round! nor make me wait.

Madison Julius Cawein

Ambition.

Now to my lips lift then some opiate
Of black forgetfulness! while in thy gaze
Still lures the loveless beauty that betrays,
And in thy mouth the music that is hate.
No promise more hast thou to make me wait;
No smile to cozen my sick heart with praise!
Far, far behind thee stretch laborious days,
And far before thee, labors soon and late.
Thine is the fen-fire that we deem a star,
Flying before us, ever fugitive,
Thy mocking policy still holds afar:
And thine the voice, to which our longings give
Hope's siren face, that speaks us sweet and fair,
Only to lead us captives to Despair.

Madison Julius Cawein

The Unattainable

Mark thou! a shadow crowned with fire of hell.
Man holds her in his heart as night doth hold
The moonlight memories of day's dead gold;
Or as a winter-withered asphodel
In its dead loveliness holds scents of old.
And looking on her, lo, he thinks 'tis well.

Who would not follow her whose glory sits,
Imperishably lovely on the air?
Who, from the arms of Earth's desire, flits
With eyes defiant and rebellions hair? -
Hers is the beauty that no man shall share.

He who hath seen, what shall it profit him?
He who doth love, what shall his passion gain?
When disappointment at her cup's bright brim
Poisons the pleasure with the hemlock pain?
Hers is the passion that no man shall drain.

How long, how long since Life hath touched her eyes,
Making ...

Madison Julius Cawein

The Cross.

The cross I bear no man shall know
No man can ease the cross I bear!
Alas! the thorny path of woe
Up the steep hill of care!

There is no word to comfort me;
No sign to help my bended head;
Deep night lies over land and sea,
And silence dark and dread.

To strive, it seems, that I was born,
For that which others shall obtain;
The disappointment and the scorn
Alone for me remain.

One half my life is overpast;
The other half I contemplate
Meseems the past doth but forecast
A darker future state.

Sick to the heart of that which makes
Me hope and struggle and desire,
The aspiration here that aches
With ineffectual fire;

While inwardly I know the lack,
The insufficiency of power,
Each past day's retrospect m...

Madison Julius Cawein

Unsuccess

A modern Poet addresses his Muse, to whom he has devoted the best Years of his Life

I.

Not here, O belovéd! not here let us part, in the city, but there!
Out there where the storm can enfold us, on the hills, where its breast is made bare:
Its breast, that is rainy and cool as the fern that drips by the fall
In the luminous night of' the woodland where winds to the waters call.
Not here, O belovéd! not here! but there! out there in the storm!

The rush and the reel of the heavens, the tem pest, whose rapturous arm
Shall seize us and sweep us together, resistless as passions seize men,
Through the rocking world of the woodland, with its multitude music, and then,
With the rain on our lips, belovéd! in the heart of the night's wild hell,
One last, long kiss forever, and...

Madison Julius Cawein