The Garden of Dreams.

by Madison J. Cawein.

A FALLEN BEECH

Nevermore at doorways that are barken Shall the madcap wind knock and the noonlight; Nor the circle, which thou once didst darken, Shine with footsteps of the neighboring moonlight, Visitors for whom thou oft didst hearken.

Nevermore, gallooned with cloudy laces, Shall the morning, like a fair freebooter, Make thy leaves his richest treasure-places; Nor the sunset, like a royal suitor, Clothe thy limbs with his imperial graces.

And no more, between the savage wonder Of the sunset and the moon's up-coming, Shall the storm, with boisterous hoof-beats, under Thy dark roof dance, Faun-like, to the humming Of the Pan-pipes of the rain and thunder.

Oft the satyr spirit, beauty-drunken, Of the Spring called; and the music-measure Of thy sap made answer; and thy sunken Veins grew vehement with youth, whose pressure Swelled thy gnarly muscles, winter-shrunken.

And the germs, deep down in darkness rooted, Bubbled green from all thy million oilets, Where the spirits, rain-and-sunbeam-suited, Of the April made their whispering toilets, Or within thy stately shadow footed.

Oft the hours of blonde Summer tinkled At the windows of thy twigs, and found thee Bird-blithe; or, with shapely bodies, twinkled Lissom feet of naked flowers around thee, Where thy mats of moss lay sunbeam-sprinkled.

And the Autumn with his gipsy-coated Troop of days beneath thy branches rested, Swarthy-faced and dark of eye; and throated Songs of hunting; or with red hand tested Every nut-bur that above him floated.

Then the Winter, barren-browed, but rich in s.h.a.ggy followers of frost and freezing, Made the floor of thy broad boughs his kitchen, Trapper-like, to camp in; grimly easing Limbs snow-furred and moccasoned with lichen.

Now, alas! no more do these invest thee With the dignity of whilom gladness!

They--unto whose hearts thou once confessed thee Of thy dreams--now know thee not! and sadness Sits beside thee where forgot dost rest thee.

THE HAUNTED WOODLAND

Here in the golden darkness And green night of the woods, A flitting form I follow, A shadow that eludes-- Or is it but the phantom Of former forest moods?

The phantom of some fancy I knew when I was young, And in my dreaming boyhood, The wildwood flow'rs among, Young face to face with Faery Spoke in no unknown tongue.

Blue were her eyes, and golden The nimbus of her hair; And crimson as a flower Her mouth that kissed me there; That kissed and bade me follow, And smiled away my care.

A magic and a marvel Lived in her word and look, As down among the blossoms She sate me by the brook, And read me wonder-legends In Nature's Story Book.

Loved fairy-tales forgotten, She never reads again, Of beautiful enchantments That haunt the sun and rain, And, in the wind and water, Chant a mysterious strain.

And so I search the forest, Wherein my spirit feels, In tree or stream or flower Herself she still conceals-- But now she flies who followed, Whom Earth no more reveals.

DISCOVERY

What is it now that I shall seek, Where woods dip downward, in the hills?-- A mossy nook, a ferny creek, And May among the daffodils.

Or in the valley's vistaed glow, Past rocks of terraced trumpet-vines, Shall I behold her coming slow, Sweet May, among the columbines?

With redbud cheeks and bluet eyes, Big eyes, the homes of happiness, To meet me with the old surprise, Her hoiden hair all bonnetless.

Who waits for me, where, note for note, The birds make glad the forest-trees?

A dogwood blossom at her throat, My May among the anemones.

As sweetheart breezes kiss the blooms, And dewdrops drink the moonlight's gleams, My soul shall kiss her lips' perfumes, And drink the magic of her dreams.

COMRADERY

With eyes hand-arched he looks into The morning's face, then turns away With schoolboy feet, all wet with dew, Out for a holiday.

The hill brook sings, incessant stars, Foam-fashioned, on its restless breast; And where he wades its water-bars Its song is happiest.

A comrade of the chinquapin, He looks into its knotted eyes And sees its heart; and, deep within, Its soul that makes him wise.

The wood-thrush knows and follows him, Who whistles up the birds and bees; And 'round him all the perfumes swim Of woodland loam and trees.

Where'er he pa.s.s the supple springs'

Foam-people sing the flowers awake; And sappy lips of bark-clad things Laugh ripe each fruited brake.

His touch is a companionship; His word, an old authority: He comes, a lyric at his lip, Unstudied Poesy.

OCCULT

Unto the soul's companionship Of things that only seem to be, Earth points with magic fingertip And bids thee see How Fancy keeps thee company.

For oft at dawn hast not beheld A spirit of prismatic hue Blow wide the buds, which night has swelled?

And stain them through With heav'n's ethereal gold and blue?

While at her side another went With gleams of enigmatic white?

A spirit who distributes scent, To vale and height, In footsteps of the rosy light?

And oft at dusk hast thou not seen The star-fays bring their caravans Of dew, and glitter all the green, Night's shadow tans, From many starbeam sprinkling-cans?

Nor watched with these the elfins go Who tune faint instruments? whose sound Is that moon-music insects blow When all the ground Sleeps, and the night is hushed around?