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Myth and Romance Being a Book of Verses   By: (1865-1914)

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Myth and Romance

Being a Book of verses

By MADISON CAWEIN

G.P. PUTNAM'S SONS

New York and London

The Knickerbocker Press

1899

TO

MY FRIEND

WILLIAM WARWICK THUM

CONTENTS

VISIONS AND VOICES

Myth and Romance

Genius Loci

The Rain Crow

The Harvest Moon

The Old Water Mill

Anthem of Dawn

Dithyrambics

Hymn to Desire

Music

Jotunheim

Dionysia

The Last Song

Romaunt of the Oak

Morgan le Fay

The Dream of Roderick

Zyps of Zirl

The Glowworm

Ghosts

The Purple Valleys

The Land of Illusion

Spirit of Dreams

LINES AND LYRICS

To a Wind Flower

Microcosm

Fortune

Death

The Soul

Conscience

Youth

Life's Seasons

Old Homes

Field and Forest Call

Meeting in Summer

Swinging

Rosemary

Ghost Stories

Dolce far Niente

Words

Reasons

Evasion

In May

Will you Forget?

Clouds of the Autumn Night

The Glory and the Dream

Snow and Fire

Restraint

Why Should I Pine?

When Lydia Smiles

The Rose

A Ballad of Sweethearts

Her Portrait

A Song for Yule

The Puritans' Christmas

Spring

Lines

When Ships put out to Sea

The "Kentucky"

Quatrains

Processional

PROEM.

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 a metre that none before Have sung in their love, or dreamed in their lore, And the world would be richer one poet the more.

VISIONS AND VOICES

Myth and Romance

I

When I go forth to greet the glad faced Spring, Just at the time of opening apple buds, When brooks are laughing, winds are whispering, On babbling hillsides or in warbling woods, There is an unseen presence that eludes: Perhaps a Dryad, in whose tresses cling The loamy odors of old solitudes, Who, from her beechen doorway, calls; and leads My soul to follow; now with dimpling words Of leaves; and now with syllables of birds; While here and there is it her limbs that swing? Or restless sunlight on the moss and weeds?

II

Or, haply, 't is a Naiad now who slips, Like some white lily, from her fountain's glass, While from her dripping hair and breasts and hips, The moisture rains cool music on the grass. Her have I heard and followed, yet, alas! Have seen no more than the wet ray that dips The shivered waters, wrinkling where I pass; But, in the liquid light, where she doth hide, I have beheld the azure of her gaze Smiling; and, where the orbing ripple plays, Among her minnows I have heard her lips, Bubbling, make merry by the waterside.

III

Or now it is an Oread whose eyes Are constellated dusk who stands confessed, As naked as a flow'r; her heart's surprise, Like morning's rose, mantling her brow and breast: She, shrinking from my presence, all distressed Stands for a startled moment ere she flies, Her deep hair blowing, up the mountain crest, Wild as a mist that trails along the dawn. And is't her footfalls lure me? or the sound Of airs that stir the crisp leaf on the ground? And is't her body glimmers on yon rise? Or dog wood blossoms snowing on the lawn?

IV

Now't is a Satyr piping serenades On a slim reed. Now Pan and Faun advance Beneath green hollowed roofs of forest glades, Their feet gone mad with music: now, perchance, Sylvanus sleeping, on whose leafy trance The Nymphs stand gazing in dim ambuscades Of sun embodied perfume. Myth, Romance, Where'er I turn, reach out bewildering arms, Compelling me to follow. Day and night I hear their voices and behold the light Of their divinity that still evades, And still allures me in a thousand forms... Continue reading book >>




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