MONOLOGUES
BY MADISON CAWEIN
IDYLLIC MONOLOGUES
Poems by Madison Cawein
OLD AND NEW WORLD VERSES
BY THE AUTHOR OF
"Undertones" "Garden of Dreams"
JOHN P. MORTON AND COMPANY
Publishers--Louisville, Kentucky
Copyrighted 1898
BY MADISON CAWEIN
TO
MY FRIEND:
R. E. LEE GIBSON
This collection of poems is entirely new with the exception of three or
four which appeared in two earlier volumes, published some ten years
ago. The reprinted poems have been carefully re-written, and so changed
throughout as to hardly bear any resemblance, except that of subject, to
the original.
CONTENTS
PAGE
The Brothers 1
Geraldine 15
The Moated Manse 20
The Forester 35
My Lady of Verne 48
An Old Tale Re-told 55
The Water Witch 65
At Nineveh 70
How They Brought Aid to Bryan's Station 72
On the Jellico Spur of the Cumberlands 77
A Confession 83
Lilith 84
Content 86
Berrying 88
To a Pansy-Violet 90
Heart of my Heart 93
Witnesses 94
Wherefore 95
Pagan 96
"The Fathers of our Fathers" 97
"Mene, Mene, Tekel, Upharsin" 99
Her Vivien Eyes 101
There was a Rose 102
The Artist 103
Poetry and Philosophy 103
"Quo Vadis" 104
To a Critic 105
FOREWORD.
_And one, perchance, will read and sigh:
"What aimless songs! Why will he sing
Of nature that drags out her woe
Through wind and rain, and sun, and snow,
From miserable spring to spring?"
Then put me by._
_And one, perhaps, will read and say:
"Why write of things across the sea;
Of men and women, far and near,
When we of things at home would hear--
Well, who would call this poetry?"
Then toss away._
_A hopeless task have we, meseems,
At this late day; whom fate hath made
Sad, bankrupt heirs of song; who, filled
With kindred yearnings, try to build
A tower like theirs, that will not fade,
Out of our dreams._
Only One Hundred and Fifty Copies Printed for Private Distribution.
A Few Copies For Sale.
IDYLLIC MONOLOGUES
The Brothers
Not far from here, it lies beyond
That low-hilled belt of woods. We'll take
This unused lane where brambles make
A wall of twilight, and the blond
Brier-roses pelt the path and flake
The margin waters of a pond.
This is its fence--or that which was
Its fence once--now, rock rolled from rock,
One tangle of the vine and dock,
Where bloom the wild petunias;
And this its gate, the iron-weeds block,
Hot with the insects' dusty buzz.
Two wooden posts, wherefrom has peeled
The weather-crumbled paint, still rise;
Gaunt things--that groan when someone tries
The gate whose hinges, rust-congealed,
Snarl open:--on each post still lies
Its carven lion with a shield.
We enter; and between great rows
Of locusts winds a grass-grown road;
And at its glimmering end,--o'erflowed
With quiet light,--the white front shows
Of an old mansion, grand and broad,
With grave Colonial porticoes.
Grown thick around it, dark and deep,
The locust trees make one vast hush;
Their brawny branches crowd and crush
Its very casements, and o'ersweep
Its rotting roofs; their tranquil rush
