Poems of Madison Cawein Vol. 3 — Wood-Words

I

The spirits of the forest, That to the winds give voice-- I lie the livelong April day And wonder what it is they say That makes the leaves rejoice.

The spirits of the forest, That breathe in bud and bloom-- I walk within the haw-tree brake And wonder how it is they make The bubbles of perfume.

The spirits of the forest, That dwell in every spring-- I lean above the brook’s bright blue And wonder what it is they do That makes the water sing.

The spirits of the forest, That haunt the sun’s green glow-- Down fungus ways of fern I steal And would surprise what they conceal, In dew, that twinkles so.

O spirits of the forest, Here are my heart and hand!

-- Oh, send a gleam or glow-worm ray To guide my soul the firefly way That leads to Fairyland.

II

The time when dog-tooth violets Hold up inverted horns of gold,-- The elvish cups that Spring upsets With dripping feet, when April wets The sun-and-shadow-marbled wold,-- Is come.

And by each leafing way The sorrel drops pale blots of pink;

And, like an angled star a fay Sets on her forehead’s pallid day, The blossoms of the trillium wink.

Within the vale, by rock and stream,-- A fragile, fairy porcelain,-- Blue as a baby’s eyes a-dream, The bluets blow; and gleam in gleam The sun-shot dogwoods flash with rain.

It is the time to cast off care;

To make glad intimates of these:-- The frank-faced sunbeam laughing there: The great-heart wind, that bids us share The optimism of the trees.

III

The white ghosts of the flowers, The gray ghosts of the trees, Rise when the April showers, And haunt the wildwood bowers, And trail along the breeze: The white ghosts of the flowers, The gray ghosts of the trees.

Oft in the woodless places I feel their dim control;

The wildflowers’ perished faces, The great trees’ vanished races, That meet me soul to soul: Oft in the woodless places I feel their dim control.

IV

Crab-apple buds, whose bells The mouth of April kissed;

That hang,--like rosy shells Around a Naiad’s wrist,-- Pink as dawn-tinted mist.

And paw-paw buds, whose dark Deep auburn blossoms shake On boughs,--as ’neath the bark A dryad’s eyes awake,-- Brown as a midnight lake.

These, with symbolic blooms Of wind-flower and wild-phlox, I found among the glooms Of hill-lost woods and rocks, Lairs of the hare and fox.

The beetle in the brush, The bird about the creek, The bee within the hush, And I, whose love was meek, Stood still to hear these speak The language that records, In flower-syllables, The hieroglyphic words Of beauty, who enspells The world and aye compels.

THE WIND AT NIGHT