Part 1
Produced by David Garcia, Matthew Wheaton and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Kentuckiana Digital Library)
The Author's thanks are due to Mr. R. H. RUSSELL, of New York, for kind permission to reprint from _Shapes and Shadows_ four of the poems published in this volume.
KENTUCKY POEMS
BY MADISON CAWEIN
WITH AN INTRODUCTION BY EDMUND GOSSE
NEW YORK E. P. DUTTON & CO. 1903
NOTE
The poems included in this volume have been selected from the following volumes of the author: _Moods and Memories_, _Red Leaves and Roses_, _Poems of Nature and Love_, _Intimations of the Beautiful_, _Days and Dreams_, _Undertones_, _Idyllic Monologues_, _The Garden of Dreams_, _Shapes and Shadows_, _Myth and Romance_, and _Weeds by the Wall_. None of the longer poems have been included in this selection.
CONTENTS
PROLOGUE
FOREST AND FIELD
SUMMER
TO SORROW
NIGHT
A FALLEN BEECH
A TWILIGHT MOTH
THE GRASSHOPPER
BEFORE THE RAIN
AFTER RAIN
THE HAUNTED HOUSE
OCTOBER
INDIAN SUMMER
ALONG THE OHIO
A COIGN OF THE FOREST
CREOLE SERENADE
WILL O' THE WISPS
THE TOLLMAN'S DAUGHTER
THE BOY COLUMBUS
SONG OF THE ELF
THE OLD INN
THE MILL-WATER
THE DREAM
SPRING TWILIGHT
A SLEET-STORM IN MAY
UNREQUITED
THE HEART O' SPRING
'A BROKEN RAINBOW ON THE SKIES OF MAY'
ORGIE
REVERIE
LETHE
DIONYSIA
THE NAIAD
THE LIMNAD
INTIMATIONS
BEFORE THE TEMPLE
ANTHEM OF DAWN
AT THE LANE'S END
THE FARMSTEAD
A FLOWER OF THE FIELDS
THE FEUD
LYNCHERS
DEAD MAN'S RUN
AUGUST
THE BUSH-SPARROW
QUIET
MUSIC
THE PURPLE VALLEYS
A DREAM SHAPE
THE OLD BARN
THE WOOD WITCH
AT SUNSET
MAY
RAIN
TO FALL
SUNSET IN AUTUMN
THE HILLS
CONTENT
HEART OF MY HEART
OCTOBER
MYTH AND ROMANCE
GENIUS LOCI
DISCOVERY
THE OLD SPRING
THE FOREST SPRING
TRANSMUTATION
DEAD CITIES
FROST
A NIGHT IN JUNE
THE DREAMER
WINTER
MID-WINTER
SPRING
TRANSFORMATION
RESPONSE
THE SWASHBUCKLER
SIMULACRA
CAVERNS
THE BLUE BIRD
QUATRAINS
ADVENTURERS
EPILOGUE
INTRODUCTION
Since the disappearance of the latest survivors of that graceful and somewhat academic school of poets who ruled American literature so long from the shores of Massachusetts, serious poetry in the United States seems to have been passing through a crisis of languor. Perhaps there is no country on the civilised globe where, in theory, verse is treated with more respect and, in practice, with a greater lack of grave consideration than America. No conjecture as to the reason of this must be attempted here, further than to suggest that the extreme value set upon sharpness, ingenuity and rapid mobility is obviously calculated to depreciate and to condemn the quiet practice of the most meditative of the arts. Hence we find that it is what is called 'humorous' verse which is mainly in fashion on the western side of the Atlantic. Those rhymes are most warmly welcomed which play the most preposterous tricks with language, which dazzle by the most mountebank swiftness of turn, and which depend most for their effect upon paradox and the negation of sober thought. It is probable that the diseased craving for what is 'smart,' 'snappy' and wide-awake, and the impulse to see everything foreshortened and topsy-turvy, must wear themselves out before cooler and more graceful tastes again prevail in imaginative literature.
Whatever be the cause, it is certain that this is not a moment when serious poetry, of any species, is flourishing in the United States. The absence of anything like a common impulse among young writers, of any definite and intelligible, if excessive, _parti pris_, is immediately observable if we contrast the American, for instance, with the French poets of the last fifteen years. Where there is no school and no clear trend of executive ambition, the solitary artist, whose talent forces itself up into the light and air, suffers unusual difficulties, and runs a constant danger of being choked in the aimless mediocrity that surrounds him. We occasionally meet with a poet in the history of literature, of whom we are inclined to say, Charming as he is, he would have developed his talent more evenly and conspicuously,--with greater decorum, perhaps,--if he had been accompanied from the first by other young men like-minded, who would have formed for him an atmosphere and cleared for him a space. This is the one regret I feel in contemplating, as I have done for years past, the ardent and beautiful talent of Mr. Cawein. I deplore the fact that he seems to stand alone in his generation; I think his poetry would have been even better than it is, and its qualities would certainly have been more clearly perceived, and more intelligently appreciated, if he were less isolated. In his own country, at this particular moment, in this matter of serious nature-painting in lyric verse, Mr. Cawein possesses what Cowley would have called 'a monopoly of wit,' In one of his lyrics Mr. Cawein asks--
'The song-birds, are they flown away, The song-birds of the summer-time, That sang their souls into the day, And set the laughing hours to rhyme? No cat-bird scatters through the hush The sparkling crystals of her song; Within the woods no hermit-thrush Trails an enchanted flute along.'
To this inquiry, the answer is: the only hermit-thrush now audible seems to sing from Louisville, Kentucky. America will, we may be perfectly sure, calm herself into harmony again, and possess once more her school of singers. In those coming days, history may perceive in Mr. Cawein the golden link that bound the music of the past to the music of the future through an interval of comparative tunelessness.
The career of Mr. Madison Cawein is represented to me as being most uneventful. He seems to have enjoyed unusual advantages for the cultivation and protection of the poetical temperament. He was born on the 23rd of March 1865, in the metropolis of Kentucky, the vigorous city of Louisville, on the southern side of the Ohio, in the midst of a country celebrated for tobacco and whisky and Indian corn. These are commodities which may be consumed in excess, but in moderation they make glad the heart of man. They represent a certain glow of the earth, they indicate the action of a serene and gentle climate upon a rich soil. It was in this delicate and voluptuous state of Kentucky that Mr. Cawein was born, that he was educated, that he became a poet, and that he has lived ever since. His blood is full of the colour and odour of his native landscape. The solemn books of history tell us that Kentucky was discovered in 1769, by Daniel Boone, a hunter. But he first discovers a country who sees it first, and teaches the world to see it; no doubt some day the city of Louisville will erect, in one of its principal squares, a statue to 'Madison Cawein, who discovered the Beauty of Kentucky.' The genius of this poet is like one of those deep rivers of his native state, which cut paths through the forests of chestnut and hemlock as they hurry towards the south and west, brushing with the impulsive fringe of their currents the rhododendrons and calmias and azaleas that bend from the banks to be mirrored in their flushing waters.
Mr. Cawein's vocation to poetry was irresistible. I do not know that he ever tried to resist it. I have even the idea that a little more resistance would have been salutary for a talent which nothing could have discouraged, and which opposition might have taught the arts of compression and selection. Mr. Cawein suffered at first, I think, from lack of criticism more than from lack of eulogy. From his early writings I seem to gather an impression of a Louisville more ready to praise what was second-rate than what was first-rate, and practically, indeed, without any scale of appreciation whatever. This may be a mistake of mine; at all events, Mr. Cawein has had more to gain from the passage of years in self-criticism than in inspiring enthusiasm. The fount was in him from the first; but it bubbled forth before he had digged a definite channel for it. Sometimes, to this very day, he sports with the principles of syntax as Nature played games so long ago with the fantastic caverns of the valley of the Green River or with the coral-reefs of his own Ohio. He has bad rhymes, amazing in so delicate an ear; he has awkwardness of phrase not expected in one so plunged in contemplation of the eternal harmony of Nature. But these grow fewer and less obtrusive as the years pass by.
The virgin timber-forests of Kentucky, the woods of honey-locust and buck-eye, of white oak and yellow poplar, with their clearings full of flowers unknown to us by sight or name, from which in the distance are visible the domes of the far-away Cumberland Mountains, this seems to be the hunting-field of Mr. Cawein's imagination. Here all, it must be confessed, has hitherto been unfamiliar to the Muses. If Persephone 'of our Cumnor cowslips never heard,' how much less can her attention have been arrested by clusters of orchids from the Ocklawaha, or by the song of the Whippoorwill, rung out when 'the west was hot geranium-red' under the boughs of a black-jack on the slopes of Mount Kinnex. 'Not here,' one is inclined to exclaim, 'not here, O Apollo, are haunts meet for thee,' but the art of the poet is displayed by his skill in breaking down these prejudices of time and place. Mr. Cawein reconciles us to his strange landscape--the strangeness of which one has to admit is mainly one of nomenclature,--by the exercise of a delightful instinctive pantheism. He brings the ancient gods to Kentucky, and it is marvellous how quickly they learn to be at home there. Here is Bacchus, with a spicy fragment of calamus-root in his hand, trampling down the blue-eyed grass, and skipping, with the air of a hunter born, into the hickory thicket, to escape Artemis, whose robes, as she passes swiftly with her dogs through the woods, startle the humming-birds, silence the green tree-frogs, and fill the hot still air with the perfumes of peppermint and pennyroyal. It is a queer landscape, but one of new natural beauties frankly and sympathetically discovered, and it forms a _mise en scene_ which, I make bold to say, would have scandalised neither Keats nor Spenser.
It was Mr. Howells,--ever as generous in discovering new native talent as he is unflinching in reproof of the effeteness of European taste,--who first drew attention to the originality and beauty of Mr. Cawein's poetry. The Kentucky poet had, at that time, published but one tentative volume, the _Blooms of the Berry_, of 1887. This was followed, in 1888, by _The Triumph of Music_, and since then hardly a year has passed without a slender sheaf of verse from Mr. Cawein's garden. Among these (if a single volume is to be indicated), the quality which distinguishes him from all other poets,--the Kentucky flavour, if we may call it so,--is perhaps to be most agreeably detected in _Intimations of the Beautiful_. But it is time that I should leave the American lyrist to make his own appeal to English ears, with but one additional word of explanation, namely, that in this selection Mr. Cawein's narrative poems on mediaeval themes, and in general his cosmopolitan writings, have been neglected in favour of such lyrics as would present him most vividly in his own native landscape, no visitor in spirit to Europe, but at home in that bright and exuberant West--
Where, in the hazy morning, runs The stony branch that pools and drips, Where red-haws and the wild-rose hips Are strewn like pebbles; where the sun's Own gold seems captured by the weeds; To see, through scintillating seeds, The hunters steal with glimmering guns. To stand within the dewy ring Where pale death smites the bone-set blooms, And everlasting's flowers, and plumes Of mint, with aromatic wing! And hear the creek,--whose sobbing seems A wild man murmuring in his dreams,-- And insect violins that sing!
So sweet a voice, so consonant with the music of the singers of past times, heard in a place so fresh and strange, will surely not pass without its welcome from the lovers of genuine poetry.
EDMUND GOSSE.
PROLOGUE
_There is a poetry that speaks Through common things: the grasshopper, That in the hot weeds creaks and creaks, Says all of summer to my ear: And in the cricket's cry I hear The fireside speak, and feel the frost Work mysteries of silver near On country casements, while, deep lost In snow, the gatepost seems a sheeted ghost.
And other things give rare delight: Those guttural harps the green-frogs tune, Those minstrels of the falling night, That hail the sickle of the moon From grassy pools that glass her lune: Or,--all of August in its loud Dry cry,--the locust's call at noon, That tells of heat and never a cloud To veil the pitiless sun as with a shroud.
The rain,--whose cloud dark-lids the moon, The great white eyeball of the night,-- Makes music for me; to its tune I hear the flowers unfolding white, The mushroom growing, and the slight Green sound of grass that dances near; The melon ripening with delight; And in the orchard, soft and clear, The apple redly rounding out its sphere.
The grigs make music as of old, To which the fairies whirl and shine Within the moonlight's prodigal gold, On woodways wild with many a vine: When all the wilderness with wine Of stars is drunk, I hear it say-- 'Is God restricted to confine His wonders only to the day, That yields the abstract tangible to clay?'
And to my ear the wind of Morn,-- When on her rubric forehead far One star burns big,--lifts a vast horn Of wonder where all murmurs are: In which I hear the waters war, The torrent and the blue abyss, And pines,--that terrace bar on bar The mountain side,--like lovers' kiss, And whisper words where naught but grandeur is.
The jutting crags,--all iron-veined With ore,--the peaks, where eagles scream, That pour their cataracts, rainbow-stained, Like hair, in many a mountain stream, Can lift my soul beyond the dream Of all religions; make me scan No mere external or extreme, But inward pierce the outward plan And learn that rocks have souls as well as man._
FOREST AND FIELD
I
Green, watery jets of light let through The rippling foliage drenched with dew; And golden glimmers, warm and dim, That in the vistaed distance swim; Where, 'round the wood-spring's oozy urn, The limp, loose fronds of forest fern Trail like the tresses, green and wet, A wood-nymph binds with violet. O'er rocks that bulge and roots that knot The emerald-amber mosses clot; From matted walls of brier and brush The elder nods its plumes of plush; And, Argus-eyed with many a bloom, The wild-rose breathes its wild perfume; May-apples, ripening yellow, lean With oblong fruit, a lemon-green, Near Indian-turnips, long of stem, That bear an acorn-oval gem, As if some woodland Bacchus there,-- While braiding locks of hyacinth hair With ivy-tod,--had idly tost His thyrsus down and so had lost: And blood-root, that from scarlet wombs Puts forth, in spring, its milk-white blooms, That then like starry footsteps shine Of April under beech and pine; At which the gnarled eyes of trees Stare, big as Fauns' at Dryades, That bend above a fountain's spar As white and naked as a star.
The stagnant stream flows sleepily Thick with its lily-pads; the bee,-- All honey-drunk, a Bassarid,-- Booms past the mottled toad, that, hid In calamus-plants and blue-eyed grass, Beside the water's pooling glass, Silenus-like, eyes stolidly The Maenad-glittering dragonfly. And pennyroyal and peppermint Pour dry-hot odours without stint From fields and banks of many streams; And in their scent one almost seems To see Demeter pass, her breath Sweet with her triumph over death.-- A haze of floating saffron; sound Of shy, crisp creepings o'er the ground; The dip and stir of twig and leaf; Tempestuous gusts of spices brief Borne over bosks of sassafras By winds that foot it on the grass; Sharp, sudden songs and whisperings, That hint at untold hidden things-- Pan and Sylvanus who of old Kept sacred each wild wood and wold. A wily light beneath the trees Quivers and dusks with every breeze-- A Hamadryad, haply, who,-- Culling her morning meal of dew From frail, accustomed cups of flowers,-- Now sees some Satyr in the bowers, Or hears his goat-hoof snapping press Some brittle branch, and in distress Shrinks back; her dark, dishevelled hair Veiling her limbs one instant there.
II
Down precipices of the dawn The rivers of the day are drawn, The soundless torrents, free and far, Of gold that deluge every star. There is a sound of brooks and wings That fills the woods with carollings; And, dashed on moss and flow'r and fern, And leaves, that quiver, breathe and burn, Rose-radiance smites the solitudes, The dew-drenched hills, the dripping woods, That twitter as with canticles Of shade and light; and wind, that smells Of flowers, and buds, and boisterous bees, Delirious honey, and wet trees.-- Through briers that trip them, one by one, With swinging pails, that take the sun, A troop of girls comes--berriers, Whose bare feet glitter where they pass Through dewdrop-trembling tufts of grass. And, oh! their laughter and their cheers Wake Echo 'mid her shrubby rocks Who, answering, from her mountain mocks With rapid fairy horns; as if Each mossy vale and weedy cliff Had its imperial Oberon, Who, seeking his Titania, hid In coverts caverned from the sun, In kingly wrath had called and chid.
Cloud-feathers, oozing orange light, Make rich the Indian locks of night; Her dusky waist with sultry gold Girdled and buckled fold on fold. One star. A sound of bleating flocks. Great shadows stretched along the rocks, Like giant curses overthrown By some Arthurian champion. Soft-swimming sorceries of mist That streak blue glens with amethyst. And, tinkling in the clover dells, The twilight sound of cattle-bells. And where the marsh in reed and grass Burns, angry as a shattered glass, The flies make golden blurs, that shine Like drops of amber-scattered wine Spun high by reeling Bacchanals, When Bacchus wreathes his curling hair With vine-leaves, and from every lair His worshippers around him calls. They come, they come, a happy throng, The berriers with gibe and song; Their pails brimmed black to tin-bright eaves With luscious fruit, kept cool with leaves Of aromatic sassafras; 'Twixt which some sparkling berry slips, Like laughter, from the purple mass, Wine-swollen as Silenus' lips.
III
The tanned and tired noon climbs high Up burning reaches of the sky; Below the drowsy belts of pines The rock-ledged river foams and shines; And over rainless hill and dell Is blown the harvest's sultry smell: While, in the fields, one sees and hears The brawny-throated harvesters,-- Their red brows beaded with the heat,-- By twos and threes among the wheat Flash their hot scythes; behind them press The binders--men and maids that sing Like some mad troop of piping Pan;-- While all the hillsides swoon and ring Such sounds of Ariel airiness As haunted freckled Caliban. 'O ho! O ho! 'tis noon I say. The roses blow. Away, away, above the hay, To the tune o' the bees the roses sway; The love-songs that they hum all day, So low! So low! The roses' Minnesingers they.'
Up velvet lawns of lilac skies The tawny moon begins to rise Behind low, blue-black hills of trees,-- As rises up, in Siren seas, To rock in purple deeps, hip-hid, A virgin-bosomed Oceanid.-- Gaunt shadows crouch by tree and scaur, Like shaggy Satyrs waiting for The moonbeam Nymphs, the Dryads white, That take with loveliness the night, And glorify it with their love. The sweet, far notes I hear, I hear, Beyond dim pines and mellow ways, The song of some fair harvester, The lovely Limnad of the grove, Whose singing charms me while it slays. 'O deep! O deep! the earth and air Are sunk in sleep. Adieu to care! Now everywhere Is rest; and by the old oak there The maiden with the nut-brown hair Doth keep, doth keep Tryst with her lover the young and fair.'
IV
Like Atalanta's spheres of gold, Within the orchard, apples rolled From sudden hands of boughs that lay Their leaves, like palms, against the day; And near them pears of rusty brown Lay bruised; and peaches, pink with down, And furry as the ears of Pan, Or, like Diana's cheeks, a tan Beneath which burnt a tender fire; Or wan as Psyche's with desire. And down the orchard vistas,--young, A hickory basket by him swung, A straw-hat, 'gainst the sloping sun Drawn brim-broad o'er his face,--he strode; As if he looked to find some one, His eyes far-fixed beyond the road. Before him, like a living burr, Rattled the noisy grasshopper. And where the cows' melodious bells Trailed music up and down the dells, Beside the spring, that o'er the ground Went whimpering like a fretful hound, He saw her waiting, fair and slim, Her pail forgotten there, for him.
Yellow as sunset skies and pale As fairy clouds that stay or sail Through azure vaults of summer, blue As summer heavens, the wild-flowers grew; And blossoms on which spurts of light Fell laughing, like the lips one might Feign for a Hebe, or a girl Whose mouth is laughter-lit with pearl. Long ferns, in murmuring masses heaped; And mosses moist, in beryl steeped And musk aromas of the wood And silence of the solitude: And everything that near her blew The spring had showered thick with dew.-- Across the rambling fence she leaned, Her fresh, round arms all white and bare; Her artless beauty, bonnet-screened, Rich-coloured with its auburn hair. A wood-thrush gurgled in a vine-- Ah! 'tis his step, 'tis he she hears; The wild-rose smelt like some rare wine-- He comes, ah, yes! 'tis he who nears. And her brown eyes and all her face Said welcome. And with rustic grace He leant beside her; and they had Some talk with youthful laughter glad: I know not what; I know but this Its final period was a kiss.
SUMMER
I
Hang out your loveliest star, O Night! O Night! Your richest rose, O Dawn! To greet sweet Summer, her, who, clothed in light, Leads Earth's best hours on. Hark! how the wild birds of the woods Throat it within the dewy solitudes! The brook sings low and soft, The trees make song, As, from her heaven aloft Comes blue-eyed Summer like a girl along.
II