Poems of Madison Cawein Vol. 3 — The Bridle-Path

I

Through meadows of the ironweeds, Whose purple blooms hang, slipping The morning dew in twinkling beads, The thin path twists and, winding, leads Through woodland hollows dripping;

Down to a creek of rocks and reeds;

On to a lilied dam that feeds A mill, whose wheel through willow-bredes Winks, the white water whipping.

II

It wends through meads of mint and brush Where silvery seeds drift drowsy, Or swoon along the heatful hush;

And where the bobwhite, in the bush, The elder, blooming frowsy, Keeps calling clear: then through a crush Of crowded saplings, low and lush;

Then by a pool of flag and rush With brier-rose petaled blowsy.

III

Thence, o’er the ragweed fallow-lot, Whose low rail-fence encumbers The dense-packed berries ripening hot;

Where, in the heaven, one far spot Of gray, the gray hawk slumbers;

Then through the greenwood where the rot Of leaves and loam smells cool; and, shot With dotting dark, the touch-me-not Swings curling horns in numbers.

IV

It winds round rocks that bulge and lie Deep in damp ferns and mosses,-- Each like a giant on his thigh Watching some forest quarry die;-- And thence it frailly crosses A bramble-bridge; whence, whirring high, A partridge startles,--’thwart the sky A jarring light,--where, babbling by, The brook its diamonds tosses.

V

And here the cohosh swings its snow, Gaunt from the forest springing;

There gold the sorrel blossoms blow;

Here vari-colored toadstools sow, Or swell the soil; and, swinging, The trumpet-vine hangs red and low Near boughs,--on which the beech-burrs glow,-- The woodland wind sways to and fro, O’er waters wildly ringing.

VI

It leads us deep into the cane Through spice-bush belts, where “tinkle” One stray bell sounds, and then again, Lost in some lone and leafy lane Where smooth the clay ruts wrinkle ...

A cloud looms up,--a grayish stain Against the blue;--and wet with rain The wind blows, denting down the grain And leaves, the first drops sprinkle.

VII

The dust is drilled with raindrops.

--One, Then two quick gleams, then thunder;

And, scurrying with the dust, we run Into a whiff of hay and sun, Of cribs and barns; and under Low martin-builded eaves,--where dun The sparrows shelter,--watch the spun Blue rain sweep down, that seems to stun The world with wind and wonder.

VIII

A crashing wedge of stormy light, Vibrating, blinds, and dashes A monster elm to splinters white: Then roaring rain: then, blinding bright, A bolt again that crashes....

The storm is over.

Left and right The clouds break; and, with green delight, Fresh rain scents blow from wood and height Where each blade drips and flashes.

IX

A ghostly gold burns slowly through The chasm’d clouds; and blended With rainy rose and rainy blue, The heavens, pearled with many a hue, Die like a dolphin splendid....

High-buoyed in wrack, now one or two Slight stars peep out--the pirate clue To night’s rich hoard.

--In dusk and dew Here is our pathway ended.