Poems of Madison Cawein Vol. 4 — Before the Tomb

BEFORE THE TOMB

The way led under cedared gloom Where, o'er the entrance of her tomb, The moon hung, like a cactus bloom.

I had an hour of night and thin Sad starlight; and I set my chin Against the grating and looked in.

A gleam, like moonlight, through a square Of opening--I knew not where-- Shone on her coffin resting there.

And on its oval silver-plate I read her name and age and date, And smiled, soft-thinking on my hate.

There was no insect sound to chirr;

No wind to make a little stir: I stood and looked and thought on her.

The gleam stole downward from her head, Till at her feet it rested, red On Gothic gold, whose letters said:-- "God to her love lent a weak reed Of strength: and gave no light to lead: Pray for her soul: for it hath need."

There was no night-bird's twitter near;

No low, vague water I might hear To make a small sound in the ear.

The gleam, that made a burning mark Of each dim word, died to a spark;

Then left the tomb and coffin dark.

I had a little while to wait;

And prayed with hands against the grate, And heart that yearned and knew too late.

There was no light below, above, To point my soul the way thereof,-- The way of hate that led to love.

FLAMENCINE

I

It was a gipsy maiden Within the forest green;

It was a gipsy maiden Who shook a tambourine: The star of eve had not the face, The cascade's foam had not the grace Of Flamencine.