Poems. Cawein Madison Julius

WOODLAND GRAVE

        White moons may come, white moons may go—

        She sleeps where early blossoms blow;

        Knows nothing of the leafy June,

        That leans above her night and noon,

        Crowned now with sunbeam, now with moon,

          Watching her roses grow.

        The downy moth at twilight comes

        And flutters round their honeyed blooms:

        Long, lazy clouds, like ivory,

        That isle the blue lagoons of sky,

        Redden to molten gold and dye

          With flame the pine-deep glooms.

        Dew, dripping from wet fern and leaf;

        The wind, that shakes the violet's sheaf;

        The slender sound of water lone,

        That makes a harp-string of some stone,

        And now a wood bird's glimmering moan,

          Seem whisperings there of grief.

        Her garden, where the lilacs grew,