Читать книгу Blooms of the Berry - Cawein Madison Julius - Страница 19

O tear-eyed goddess of the marble brow,

Who showerest snows of tresses on the night

Of anguished temples! lonely watcher, thou

Who bendest o'er the couch of life's dead light!

Who in the hollow hours of night's noon

Rockest the cradle of the child,

Whose fever-blooded eyeballs seek the moon

To cool their pulses wild.

Thou who dost stoop to kiss a sister's cheek,

Which rules the alabastar death with youth;

Thou who art mad and strangely meek, —

Empress of passions, couth, uncouth,

We kneel to thee!

O Sorrow, when the sapless world grows white,

And singing gathers on her springtide robes,

On some bleak steep which takes the ruby light

Of day, braid in thy locks the spirit globes

Of cool, weak snowdrops dashed with frozen dew,

And hasten to the leas below

Where Spring may wandered be from the rich blue

Which rims yon clouds of snow.

From the pied crocus and the violet's hues,

Think then how thou didst rake the bosoming snow,

To show some mother the soft blues

Of baby eyes, the sparkling glow

Of dimple-dotted cheeks.

On some hoar upland, hoar with clustered thorns,

Hard by a river's wind-blown lisp of waves,

Sit with young white-skinned Spring, whose dewy morns

Laugh in his pouting cheeks which Health enslaves.

There feast thee on the brede of his long hair,

Where half-grown roses royal blaze.

And cool-eyed primroses wide-diskéd bare,

Frail stars of moonish haze,

Contented lie wound in his breathing arms: —

'Tis meet that grief should mingle with the wan,

That blue of calms and gloom of storms

Reign on the burning throne of dawn

To glorify the world.

Or in the peaceful calm of stormy evens,

When the sick, bloodless West doth winding spread

A sheeted shroud of silver o'er the heavens

And brooches it with one rich star's gold head,

Low lay thee down beside a mountain lake,

Which dimples at the twilight's sigh,

Couched on plush mosses 'neath green bosks that shake

Storm fragrance from on high, —

The cold, pure spice of rain-drenched forests deep, —

And gorge thy grief upon the nightingale,

Who with the hush a war doth keep

That bubbles down the starlit vale

To Silence's rapt ear.