What You Will.

    I

    When the season was dry and the sun was hot
    And the hornet sucked gaunt on the apricot,
    And the ripe peach dropped to its seed a-rot,
        With a lean red wasp that stung and clung;
    When the hollyhocks, ranked in the garden-plot,
    More seed-pods had than blossoms, I wot,
        A weariness weighed on the tongue,
    That the drought of the season begot.


    II

    When the black grape bulged with the juice that burst
    Through its thick blue skin that was cracked with thirst,
    And the round gold pippins, the summer had nursed,
        In the yellowing leaves o' the orchards hung;
    When the reapers, their lips with whistling pursed,
    To their sun-tanned brows in the corn were immersed,
        A lightness came over the tongue,
    And one sung as much as one durst.


    III

    When the skies of December gray dripped and dripped,
    And icicles eaves of the big barn tipped,
    And loud hens flew over the snow or slipped,
        And the north wind hooted and bit and stung,
    And the ears of the milkmaid, Miriam, nipped,
    And the chappy cheeks of the farm boy whipped,
        A goddess unloosened the tongue,
    And one's mouth with wild honey was lipped.

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

The Tollman's Daughter

Madison Julius Cawein, Simple Poetry

There Are Fairies

Madison Julius Cawein, Simple Poetry

In The Beech Woods

Madison Julius Cawein, Simple Poetry

The Creaking Door

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.

Going For The Cows.

        I.

The juice-big apples' sullen gold,
Like lazy Sultans laughed and lolled
'Mid heavy mats of leaves that lay
Green-flatten'd 'gainst the glaring day;
And here a pear of rusty brown,
And peaches on whose brows the down
Waxed furry as the ears of Pan,
And, like Diana's cheeks, whose tan
Burnt tender secresies of fire,
Or wan as Psyche's with desire
Of lips that love to kiss or taste
Voluptuous ripeness there sweet placed.
And down the orchard vistas he, -
Barefooted, trousers out at knee,
Face shadowing from the sloping sun
A hat of straw, brim-sagging broad, -
Came, lowly whistling some vague tune,
Upon the sunbeam-sprinkled road.
Lank in his hand a twig with which
In boyish thoughtlessness he crushed
Rare pennyroyal myri...

Madison Julius Cawein

Midsummer

I.

The mellow smell of hollyhocks
And marigolds and pinks and phlox
Blends with the homely garden scents
Of onions, silvering into rods;
Of peppers, scarlet with their pods;
And (rose of all the esculents)
Of broad plebeian cabbages,
Breathing content and corpulent ease.

II.

The buzz of wasp and fly makes hot
The spaces of the garden-plot;
And from the orchard, where the fruit
Ripens and rounds, or, loosed with heat,
Rolls, hornet-clung, before the feet,
One hears the veery's golden flute,
That mixes with the sleepy hum
Of bees that drowsily go and come.

III.

The podded musk of gourd and vine
Embower a gate of roughest pine,
That leads into a wood where day
Sits, leaning o'er a forest pool,
Watch...

Madison Julius Cawein

Late October.

Ah, haughty hills, sardonic solitudes,
What wizard touch hath, crowning you with gold,
Cast Tyrian purple o'er broad-shouldered woods,
And to your pride anointed empire sold
For wan traditioned death, whose misty moods
Shake each huge throne of quarried shadows cold?

Now where the agate-foliaged forests sleep,
Bleak briars are ruby-berried, and the brush
Flames - when the winds armsful of motion heap
In wincing gusts upon it - amber blush;
The beech an inner beryle breaks from deep
Encrusting topaz of a sullen flush.

Dead gold, dead bronze, dull amethystine rose,
Rose cameo, in day's gray, somber spar
Of smoky quartz - intaglioed beauty - glows
Luxuriance of color. Trunks that are
Vast organs antheming the winds' wild woes
A faded sun and pale...

Madison Julius Cawein

Midsummer

I

The mellow smell of hollyhocks
And marigolds and pinks and phlox
Blends with the homely garden scents
Of onions, silvering into rods;
Of peppers, scarlet with their pods;
And (rose of all the esculents)
Of broad plebeian cabbages,
Breathing content and corpulent ease.

II

The buzz of wasp and fly makes hot
The spaces of the garden-plot;
And from the orchard, - where the fruit
Ripens and rounds, or, loosed with heat,
Rolls, hornet-clung, before the feet, -
One hears the veery's golden flute,
That mixes with the sleepy hum
Of bees that drowsily go and come.

III

The podded musk of gourd and vine
Embower a gate of roughest pine,
That leads into a wood where day
Sits, leaning o'er a forest pool,
Watc...

Madison Julius Cawein

Catkins

I.

Misty are the far-off hills
And misty are the near;
Purple hazes dimly lie
Veiling hill and field and sky,
Marshes where the hylas cry,
Like a myriad bills
Piping, "Spring is here!"

II.

A redbird flits,
Then sings and sits
And calls to his mate,
"She is late! she is late!
How long, how long must the woodland wait
For its emerald plumes
And its jewelled blooms?
She is late! she is late!"

III.

Along the stream,
A cloudy gleam,
The pussy-willows, tufted white,
Make of each tree a mighty light;
Pearl and silver and glimmering gray
They tassel the boughs of the willow way;
And as they swing they seem to say,
With mouths of bloom
And warm perfume:

IV.

"Awake! awa...

Madison Julius Cawein

A Song In Season

I.

When in the wind the vane turns round,
And round, and round;
And in his kennel whines the hound;
When all the gable eaves are bound
With icicles of ragged gray,
A glinting gray;
There is little to do, and much to say,
And you hug your fire and pass the day
With a thought of the springtime, dearie.


II.

When late at night the owlet hoots,
And hoots, and hoots;
And wild winds make of keyholes flutes;
When to the door the goodman's boots
Stamp through the snow the light stains red,
The fire-light's red;
There is nothing to do, and all is said,
And you quaff your cider and go to bed
With a dream of the summer, dearie.


III.

When, nearing dawn, the black cock crows,
And crows, and crows;
...

Madison Julius Cawein