Madison Julius Cawein (Мэдисон Джулиус Кавейн)
The Farmstead
Yes, I love the homestead. There In the spring the lilacs blew Plenteous perfume everywhere; There in summer gladioles grew Parallels of scarlet glare. And the moon-hued primrose cool Satin-soft and redolent; Honeysuckles beautiful, Filling all the air with scent; Roses red or white as wool. Roses, glorious and lush, Rich in tender-tinted dyes, Like the gay tempestuous rush Of unnumbered butterflies, Clustering o'er each bending bush. Here japonica and box, And the wayward violets; Clumps of star-enamelled phlox, And the myriad flowery jets Of the twilight four-o'-clocks. Ah, the beauty of the place! When the June made one great rose, Full of musk and mellow grace, In the garden's humming close, Of her comely mother face! Bubble-like, the hollyhocks Budded, burst, and flaunted wide Gypsy beauty from their stocks; Morning glories, bubble-dyed, Swung in honey-hearted flocks. Tawny tiger-lilies flung Doublets slashed with crimson on; Graceful slave-girls, fair and young, Like Circassians, in the sun Alabaster lilies swung. Ah, the droning of the bee; In his dusty pantaloons Tumbling in the fleurs-de-lis; In the drowsy afternoons Dreaming in the pink sweet-pea. Ah, the moaning wildwood-dove! With its throat of amethyst Rippled like a shining cove Which a wind to pearl hath kissed, Moaning, moaning of its love. And the insects' gossip thin From the summer hotness hid In lone, leafy deeps of green; Then at eve the katydid With its hard, unvaried din. Often from the whispering hills, Borne from out the golden dusk, Gold with gold of daffodils, Thrilled into the garden's musk The wild wail of whippoorwills. From the purple-tangled trees, Like the white, full heart of night, Solemn with majestic peace, Swam the big moon, veined with light; Like some gorgeous golden-fleece. She was there with me. And who, In the magic of the hour, Had not sworn that they could view, Beading on each blade and flower Moony blisters of the dew? And each fairy of our home, Firefly, its taper lit In the honey-scented gloam, Dashing down the dusk with it Like an instant-flaming foam. And we heard the calling, calling, Of the screech-owl in the brake; Where the trumpet-vine hung, crawling Down the ledge, into the lake Heard the sighing streamlet falling. Then we wandered to the creek Where the water-lilies, growing Thick as stars, lay white and weak; Or against the brooklet's flowing Bent and bathed a bashful cheek. And the moonlight, rippling golden, Fell in virgin aureoles On their bosoms, half unfolden, Where, it seemed, the fairies' souls Dwelt as perfume, unbeholden; Or lay sleeping, pearly-tented, Baby-cribbed within each bud, While the night-wind, piney-scented, Swooning over field and flood, Rocked them on the waters dented. Then the low, melodious bell Of a sleeping heifer tinkled, In some berry-briered dell, As her satin dewlap wrinkled With the cud that made it swell. And, returning home, we heard, In a beech-tree at the gate, Some brown, dream-behaunted bird, Singing of its absent mate, Of the mate that never heard. And, you see, now I am gray, Why within the old, old place, With such memories, I stay; Fancy out her absent face Long since passed away. She was mine yes! still is mine: And my frosty memory Reels about her, as with wine Warmed into young eyes that see All of her that was divine. Yes, I loved her, and have grown Melancholy in that love, And the memory alone Of perfection such whereof She could sanctify each stone. And where'er the poppies swing There we walk, as if a bee Bent them with its airy wing, Down her garden shadowy In the hush the evenings bring.
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