One Day & Another.

by Julius Madison Cawein.

TO G. F. M.

THIS VOLUME IS INSCRIBED IN MEMORY OF MANY DAYS.

_What though I dreamed of mountain heights, Of peaks, the barriers of the world, Around whose tops the Northern Lights And tempests are unfurled._

_Mine are the footpaths leading through Life's lowly fields and woods,--with rifts, Above, of heaven's Eden blue,-- By which the violet lifts_

_Its shy appeal; and holding up Its chaliced gold, like some wild wine, Along the hillside, cup on cup, Blooms bright the celandine._

_Where soft upon each flowering stock The b.u.t.terfly spreads damask wings; And under gra.s.sy loam and rock The cottage cricket sings._

_Where overhead eve blooms with fire, In which the new moon bends her bow, And, arrow-like, one white star by her Burns through the afterglow._

_I care not, so the sesame I find; the magic flower there, Whose touch unseals each mystery In water, earth and air._

_That in the oak tree lets me hear Its heart's deep speech, its soul's wise words; And to my mind makes crystal clear The melodies of birds._

_Why should I care, who live aloof Beyond the din of life and dust, While dreams still share my humble roof, And love makes sweet my crust?_

ONE DAY AND ANOTHER

_A Lyrical Eclogue_

PART I

LATE SPRING

_The mottled moth at eventide Beats glimmering wings against the pane; The slow, sweet lily opens wide, White in the dusk like some dim stain; The garden dreams on every side And breathes faint scents of rain.

Among the flowering stocks they stand: A crimson rose is in his hand._

1

_Outside her garden. He waits musing._

Herein the dearness of her is; The thirty perfect days of June Made one, in maiden loveliness Were not more sweet to clasp and kiss, With love not more in tune.

Ah me! I think she is too true, Too spiritual for life's rough way; For in her eyes her soul looks new-- Two bluet blossoms, watchet-blue, Are not so pure as they.

So good, so beautiful is she, So soft and white, so fond and fair, Sometimes my heart fears she may be Not long for me, and secretly A sister of the air.

2

_Dusk deepens. A whippoorwill calls._

The whippoorwills are calling where The golden west is graying; "'Tis time," they say, "to meet him there-- Why are you still delaying?

"He waits you where the old beech throws Its gnarly shadow over Wood-violet and the bramble rose, Frail maiden-fern and clover.

"Where elder and the sumach creep Above your garden's paling, Whereon at noon the lizards sleep Like lichens on the railing.

"Come! ere the early rising moon's Gold floods the violet valleys; Where mists, like phantom picaroons Anchor their stealthy galleys.

"Come! while the deepening amethyst Of dusk above is falling-- 'Tis time to tryst! 'tis time to tryst!"

The whippoorwills are calling.

They call you to these twilight ways With dewy odor dripping-- Ah, girlhood, through the rosy haze Come like a moonbeam slipping.

3

_He enters her garden, speaking dreamily:_

There is a fading inward of the day, And all the pansy heaven clasps one star; The dwindling acres eastward glimmer gray, While all the world to westward smoulders far.

Now to your gla.s.s will you pa.s.s for the last time?

Pa.s.s! humming some ballad, I know,-- Here where I wait it is late and is past time-- Late! and the moments are slow, are slow.

There is a drawing downward of the night; The bridegroom Heaven bends down to kiss the moon; Above, the heights hang silver in her light; Below, the woods stretch purple, deep in June.

There in the dew is it you hiding lawny?

You, or a moth in the vines?-- You!--by your hand, where the band twinkles tawny!

You!--by your ring, like a glowworm, that shines!

4

_She approaches, laughing. She speaks,--_

You'd given up hope?

HE

Believe me.