Madison Julius Cawein (Мэдисон Джулиус Кавейн)
Late November
I. Morning Deep in her broom-sedge, burs and iron-weeds, Her frost-slain asters and dead mallow-moons, Where gray the wilding clematis balloons The brake with puff-balls: where the slow stream leads Her sombre steps: decked with the scarlet beads Of hip and haw: through dolorous maroons And desolate golds, she goes: the wailing tunes Of all the winds about her like wild reeds. The red wrought-iron hues that flush the green Of blackberry briers, and the bronze that stains The oak's sere leaves, are in her cheeks: the gray Of forest pools, clocked thin with ice, is keen In her cold eyes: and in her hair the rain's Chill silver glimmers like a winter ray. II. Noon Lost in the sleepy grays and drowsy browns Of woodlands, smoky with the autumn haze, Where dull the last leafed maples, smouldering, blaze Like ghosts of wigwam fires, the Month uncrowns Her frosty hair, and where the forest drowns The road in shadows, in the rutted ways, Filled full of freezing rain, her robe she lays Of tattered gold, and seats herself and frowns. And at her frown each wood and bushy hill Darkens with prescience of approaching storm, Her soul's familiar fiend, who, with wild broom Of wind and rain, works her resistless will, Sweeping the world, and driving with mad arm The clouds, like leaves, through the tumultuous gloom. III. Evening The shivering wind sits in the oaks, whose limbs, Twisted and tortured, nevermore are still; Grief and decay sit with it, they, whose chill Autumnal touch makes hectic red the rims Of all the oak leaves; desolating dims The ageratum's blue that banks the rill, And splits the milkweed's pod upon the hill, And shakes it free of the last seed that swims. Down goes the day despondent to its close: And now the sunset's hands of copper build A tower of brass, behind whose burning bars The day, in fierce, barbarian repose, Like some imprisoned Inca sits, hate-filled, Crowned with the gold corymbus of the stars. IV. Night There is a booming in the forest boughs: Tremendous feet seem trampling through the trees: The storm is at his wildman revelries, And earth and heaven echo his carouse. Night reels with tumult. And from out her house Of cloud the moon looks, like a face one sees In nightmare, hurrying with pale eyes that freeze, Stooping above with white, malignant brows. The isolated oak upon the hill, That seemed, at sunset, in terrific lands A Titan head black in a sea of blood, Now seems a monster harp, whose wild strings thrill To the vast fingering of innumerable hands, The Spirits of Tempest and of Solitude.
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