Читать книгу The Poems of Madison Cawein. Volume 2 (of 5) - Cawein Madison Julius - Страница 26

Here at last! And do you know

That again you ’ve kept me waiting?

Wondering, anticipating

That your “yes” meant “no.”

Now you ’re here we ’ll have our day....

Let us take this daisied hollow,

And beneath these beeches follow

This wild strip of way

To the stream; wherein are seen

Stealing gar and darting minnow;

Over which snake-feeders winnow

Wings of black and green.

Like a cactus flames the sun;

And the mighty weaver, Even,

Tenuous colored, there in heaven,

His rich weft ’s begun....

How I love you! from the time—

You remember, do you not?—

When, within your orchard-plot,

I was reading rhyme,

As I told you. And ’t was thus:—

“By the blue Trinacrian sea,

Far in pastoral Sicily

With Theocritus”—

That I answered you who asked.

But the curious part was this:—

That the whole thing was amiss;

That the Greek but masked

Tales of old Boccaccio:

Tall Decameronian maids

Strolled for me among the glades,

Smiling, sweet and slow.

And when you approached,—my book

Dropped in wonder,—seemingly

To myself I said, “’Tis she!”

And arose to look

In Lauretta’s eyes and—true!

Found them yours.—You shook your head,

Laughing at me, as you said,

“Did I frighten you?”

You had come for cherries; these

Coatless then I climbed for while

You still questioned with a smile,

And still tried to tease.

Ah, love, just two years have gone

Since then.... I remember, you

Wore a dress of billowy blue

Muslin.—Was it “lawn”?—

And your apron still I see—

All its whiteness cherry-stained—

Which you held; wherein I rained

Ripeness from the tree.

And I asked you—for, you know,

To my eyes your serious eyes

Said such deep philosophies—

If you ’d read Rousseau.

You remember how a chance,

Somewhat like to mine, one June

Happened him at castle Toune,

Over there in France?

And a cherry dropping fair

On your cheek, I, envying it,

Cried—remembering Rousseau’s wit—

“Would my lips were there!” …

Here we are at last. We ’ll row

Down the stream.—The west has narrowed

To one streak of rose, deep-arrowed.—

There ’s our skiff below.