Читать книгу Days and Dreams: Poems - Madison Julius Cawein - Страница 21

Sad skies and a foggy rain

Dripping from streaming eaves;

Over and over again

Dead drop of the trickling leaves;

And the woodward winding lane,

And the hill with its shocks of sheaves,

One scarce perceives.

Must I go in such sad weather

By the lane or over the hill?

Where the splitting milk-weed's feather

Dim, diamond-like rain-drops fill?

Or where, ten stars together,

Buff ox-eyes rank the rill

By the old corn-mill?

The creek by this is swollen,

And its foaming cascades sound;

And the lilies, smeared with pollen,

In the race look dull and drowned;—

'T is the path we oft have stolen

To the bridge, that rambles round

With willows crowned.

Through a bottom wild with berry

Or packed with the iron-weeds,

With their blue combs washed and very

Purple; the sorghum meads

Glint green near a wilding cherry;

Where the high wild-lettuce seeds

The fenced path leads.

A bird in the rain beseeches;

And the balsams' budding balls

Smell drenched by the way which reaches

The wood where the water falls;

Where the warty water-beeches

Hang leaves one blister of galls,

The mill-wheel drawls.

My shawl instead of a bonnet! …

Though the wood be soaking yet

Through the wet to the rock I 'll run it—

How sweet to meet in the wet!—

Our rock with the vine upon it,

Each flower a fiery jet— …

He won't forget!