Waiting.

    Were we in May now, while
        Our souls are yearning,
    Sad hearts would bound and smile
        With red blood burning;
    Around the tedious dial
        No slow hands turning.

    Were we in May now, say,
        What joy to know
    Her heart's streams pulse away
        In winds that blow,
    See graceful limbs of May
        Revealed to glow.

    Were we in May now, think
        What wealth she has;
    The dog-tooth violets pink,
        Wind-flowers like glass,
    About the wood brook's brink
        Dark sassafras.

    Nights, which the large stars strew
        Heav'n on heav'n rolled,
    Nights, whose feet flash with dew,
        Whose long locks hold
    Aromas cool and new,
        A moon's curved gold.

    This makes me sad in March;
        I long and long
    To see the red-bud's torch
        Flame far and strong,
    Hear on my vine-climbed porch
        The blue-bird's song.

    What else then but to sleep
        And cease from such;
    Dream of her and to leap
        At her white touch?
    Ah me! then wake and weep,
        Weep overmuch.

    This is why day by day
        Time lamely crawls,
    Feet clogged with winter clay
        That never falls,
    While the dim month of May
        Me far off calls.

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

Mysteries

Madison Julius Cawein, Simple Poetry

Self.

Madison Julius Cawein, Simple Poetry

Uncertainty

Madison Julius Cawein, Simple Poetry

The Parting

Madison Julius Cawein, Simple Poetry

English

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Anticipation.

Windy the sky and mad;
Surly the gray March day;
Bleak the forests and sad,
Sad for the beautiful May.

On maples tasseled with red
No blithe bird swinging sung;
The brook in its lonely bed
Complained in an unknown tongue.

We walked in the wasted wood:
Her face as the Spring's was fair,
Her blood was the Spring's own blood,
The Spring's her radiant hair,

And we found in the windy wild
One cowering violet,
Like a frail and tremulous child
In the caked leaves bowed and wet.

And I sighed at the sight, with pain
For the May's warm face in the wood,
May's passions of sun and rain,
May's raiment of bloom and of bud.

But she said when she saw me sad,
"Tho' the world be gloomy as fate,
And we yearn for the day...

Madison Julius Cawein

In May

I


When you and I in the hills went Maying,
You and I in the sweet 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,
Love, as glad as the May's glad glow,--
And did you know?
When you and I in the hills went Maying.


II


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,
Love, as pure as the May's pure air,--
And did you care?
There where the brook on its rocks went winking.


III


Whatever befalls through fate's compelling,
Should our...

Madison Julius Cawein

Quiet Lanes

From the lyrical eclogue"One Day and Another"
Now rests the season in forgetfulness,
Careless in beauty of maturity;
The ripened roses round brown temples, she
Fulfills completion in a dreamy guess.
Now Time grants night the more and day the less:
The gray decides; and brown
Dim golds and drabs in dulling green express
Themselves and redden as the year goes down.
Sadder the fields where, thrusting hoary high
Their tasseled heads, the Lear-like corn-stocks die,
And, Falstaff-like, buff-bellied pumpkins lie.
Deepening with tenderness,
Sadder the blue of hills that lounge along
The lonesome west; sadder the song
Of the wild redbird in the leafage yellow.
Deeper and dreamier, aye!
Than woods or waters, leans the languid sky
Above lone orchards where the ...

Madison Julius Cawein

A Niëllo

I

It is not early spring and yet
Of bloodroot blooms along the stream,
And blotted banks of violet,
My heart will dream.

Is it because the windflower apes
The beauty that was once her brow,
That the white memory of it shapes
The April now?

Because the wild-rose wears the blush
That once made sweet her maidenhood,
Its thought makes June of barren bush
And empty wood?

And then I think how young she died -
Straight, barren Death stalks down the trees,
The hard-eyed Hours by his side,
That kill and freeze.

II

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...

Madison Julius Cawein

A Niello

I.

It is not early spring and yet
Of bloodroot blooms along the stream,
And blotted banks of violet,
My heart will dream.
Is it because the windflower apes
The beauty that was once her brow,
That the white memory of it shapes
The April now?
Because the wild-rose wears the blush
That once made sweet her maidenhood,
Its thought makes June of barren bush
And empty wood?
And then I think how young she died
Straight, barren Death stalks down the trees,
The hard-eyed Hours by his side,
That kill and freeze.

II.

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 blo...

Madison Julius Cawein

The Farmstead

Yes, I love the homestead. There
In the spring the lilacs blew
Plenteous perfume everywhere;
There in summer gladioles grew
Parallels of scarlet glare.

And the moon-hued primrose cool
Satin-soft and redolent;
Honeysuckles beautiful,
Filling all the air with scent;
Roses red or white as wool.

Roses, glorious and lush,
Rich in tender-tinted dyes,
Like the gay tempestuous rush
Of unnumbered butterflies,
Clustering o'er each bending bush.

Here japonica and box,
And the wayward violets;
Clumps of star-enamelled phlox,
And the myriad flowery jets
Of the twilight four-o'-clocks.

Ah, the beauty of the place!
When the June made one great rose,
Full of musk and mellow grace,
In the garden's humming close,
O...

Madison Julius Cawein