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One Day & Another A Lyrical Eclogue   By: (1865-1914)

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ONE DAY AND ANOTHER

A Lyrical Eclogue

ONE DAY & ANOTHER

A Lyrical Eclogue

MADISON CAWEIN

THE LYRIC LIBRARY

BOSTON RICHARD G BADGER & COMPANY (Incorporated) 1901

Copyright 1901 by RICHARD G BADGER & CO. (Incorporated)

The poem herewith presented was first published some ten years ago in a volume entitled Days and Dreams . The original verses have been re written throughout and extensively added to, making it comparatively a new poem.

LAKEVIEW PRESS, SOUTH FRAMINGHAM, MASS.

TO G. F. M. THIS VOLUME IS INSCRIBED IN MEMORY OF MANY DAYS.

What though I dreamed of mountain heights, Of peaks, the barriers of the world, Around whose tops the Northern Lights And tempests are unfurled.

Mine are the footpaths leading through Life's lowly fields and woods, with rifts, Above, of heaven's Eden blue, By which the violet lifts

Its shy appeal; and holding up Its chaliced gold, like some wild wine, Along the hillside, cup on cup, Blooms bright the celandine.

Where soft upon each flowering stock The butterfly spreads damask wings; And under grassy loam and rock The cottage cricket sings.

Where overhead eve blooms with fire, In which the new moon bends her bow, And, arrow like, one white star by her Burns through the afterglow.

I care not, so the sesame I find; the magic flower there, Whose touch unseals each mystery In water, earth and air.

That in the oak tree lets me hear Its heart's deep speech, its soul's wise words; And to my mind makes crystal clear The melodies of birds.

Why should I care, who live aloof Beyond the din of life and dust, While dreams still share my humble roof, And love makes sweet my crust?

ONE DAY AND ANOTHER

A Lyrical Eclogue

PART I

LATE SPRING

The mottled moth at eventide Beats glimmering wings against the pane; The slow, sweet lily opens wide, White in the dusk like some dim stain; The garden dreams on every side And breathes faint scents of rain. Among the flowering stocks they stand: A crimson rose is in his hand.

1

Outside her garden. He waits musing.

Herein the dearness of her is; The thirty perfect days of June Made one, in maiden loveliness Were not more sweet to clasp and kiss, With love not more in tune.

Ah me! I think she is too true, Too spiritual for life's rough way; For in her eyes her soul looks new Two bluet blossoms, watchet blue, Are not so pure as they.

So good, so beautiful is she, So soft and white, so fond and fair, Sometimes my heart fears she may be Not long for me, and secretly A sister of the air.

2

Dusk deepens. A whippoorwill calls.

The whippoorwills are calling where The golden west is graying; "'Tis time," they say, "to meet him there Why are you still delaying?

"He waits you where the old beech throws Its gnarly shadow over Wood violet and the bramble rose, Frail maiden fern and clover.

"Where elder and the sumach creep Above your garden's paling, Whereon at noon the lizards sleep Like lichens on the railing.

"Come! ere the early rising moon's Gold floods the violet valleys; Where mists, like phantom picaroons Anchor their stealthy galleys... Continue reading book >>




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