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A Mood Post by :stone3 Category :Poems Author :Madison Julius Cawein Date :November 2011 Read :2020

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A Mood

Bowed hearts that hold the saddest memories
Are the most beautiful; and such make sweet
Light happy moods of alien natures which
Their sadness contacts, and so sanctifies.

And such to me is an old, gabled house,
Deserted and neglected and unknown
Within the dreamy hollow of its hills,
Dark, cedared hills and fruitless orchards sear;
With but its host of shrouded memories
Haunting its low and desolate rooms and halls,
Its roomy hearths and cob-webbed crevices.

Here in dim rainy noons I love to sit,
And hear the running rain along the roof,
The creak and crack of noises that are born
Of unseen and mysterious agencies;
The dripping footfalls of the wind adown
Lone winding stairways massy-banistered;
A clapping door and then a sudden hush
That brings a pleasant terror stiffening through
The tingling veins and staring from the eyes.
Then comes the running rain along the roof's
Rain-rotten gables and on rain-stained walls
Invokes vague images and memories
Of all its sometime lords and mistresses,
Until the stale material will assume
All that's clairvoyant, and the fine-strung ear
In quaint far rooms or dusty corridors
Hear wrinkled ladies all beruffled trail
Long haughty silks "miraculously stiff."

(The end)
Madison Julius Cawein's poem: Mood

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A Thought A Thought

A Thought
And I have thought of youth which strains Nearer its God to rise,-- What were ambition and its pains Were life a cowardice! The grander souls that rose above Thought's noblest heights to tread, Found their endeavor in their love, And truth behind the dead. A secret glory in the tomb, A night that dawns in light, An intense presence veiled

A Character A Character

A Character
He lived beyond us and we stood As pygmies to his every mood, Mere pupils at his beck and nod, That spoke the influence of a god. And oft we wondered, when his thought Made our humanity seem naught, If he, like Uther's mystic son, Were not a birth for Avalon. When wand'ring 'neath the sighing trees, His soul waxed genial with the breeze, That, voiceful, from the piney glades