Poems of Madison Cawein Vol. 3 — The Mill-Water

The water-flag and wild cane grow Round banks whereon the sunbeams sow Ephemeral gold when, on its shores, The wind sighs through the sycamores.

In one green angle, just in reach, Between a willow-tree and beech, Moss-grown and leaky lies a boat The thick-grown lilies keep afloat.

And through its waters, half-awake, Slow swims the spotted water-snake;

And near its edge, like some gray streak, Stands gaunt the still fly-up-the-creek.

Between the lily-pads and blooms The water-spirits set their looms, And weave the lace-like light that dims The glimmering leaves of under limbs.

Each lily is the hiding-place Of some dim wood-thing’s elvish face, That watches you with gold-green eyes Where bubbles of its breathing rise.

I fancy, when the waxing moon Leans through the trees and dreams of June;

And when the black bat slants its wing, And lonelier the green-frogs sing;

I fancy, when the whippoorwill In some old tree sings wildly shrill, With glow-worm eyes that dot the dark,-- Each holding high a firefly spark, To torch its way,--the wood-imps come: And some float rocking here; and some Unmoor the lily-leaves and oar Around the old boat by the shore.

They climb through oozy weeds and moss;

They swarm its rotting sides and toss Their firefly torches o’er its edge Or hang them in the tangled sedge.

The boat is loosed.

The moon is pale.

Around the dam they slowly sail.

Upon its bow, to pilot it, A jack-o’-lantern flame doth sit.

Yes; I have seen it all in dreams: Naught is forgotten--naught, it seems-- The strangled face, the matted hair, Drown’d, of the woman trailing there.

THE DREAM