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Lalage Post by :Padawan Category :Poems Author :Madison Julius Cawein Date :November 2011 Read :2638

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What were sweet life without her
Who maketh all things sweet
With smiles that dream about her,
With dreams that come and fleet!
Soft moods that end in languor;
Soft words that end in sighs;
Curved frownings as of anger;
Cold silence of her eyes.

Sweet eyes born but for slaying,
Deep violet-dark and lost
In dreams of whilom Maying
In climes unstung of frost.
Wild eyes shot through with fire
God's light in godless years,
Brimmed wine-dark with desire,
A birth for dreams and tears.

Dear tears as sweet as laughter,
Low laughter sweet as love
Unwound in ripples after
Sad tears we knew not of.
What if the day be lawless,
What if the heart be dead,
Such tears would make it flawless,
Such laughter make it red.

Lips that were curled for kisses,
For loves and hates and scorns,
Brows under gold of tresses,
Brows beauteous as the Morn's.
Imperial locks and tangled
Down to the graceful hips;
Hair where one might be strangled
Carousing on thy lips.

Rose-lovely lips that hover
About the honeyed words,
That slip wild bees from clover
Whose sweets their sweet affords.
Though days be robbed of sunlight,
White teeth make light thereof;
Though nights unknown of onelight,
Thine eyes were stars enough.

Ah, lily-lovely features,
Round temples, throat, and chin,
Sweet gods of godless natures,
Sweet love of loveless men!
Still moods and slumberous fanned on
To dreams that rock to sleep,
Unmerciful abandon,
That haunts or makes one weep.

She walks as if with sorrows
And all unknown of joy;
Eyes fixed on dim to-morrows
That all sad feet decoy.
Yet she, a peer of pleasures,
Tears from Time's taloned hand
The hour-glass he treasures,
And wastes its sullen sand.

Makes of all hours a beaker
Brimmed full of lordly wine,
Cold gold of Life's mad liquor,
And quaffs to me and mine.
The love on lips grows fairer,
Keen lights in eyes make wars,
And throat and breast grow rarer
Than the white-throated stars.

Fleet smiles come fleet and faster
And web the willing soul;
Warm breasts of alabaster
Have snared it as a whole.
What then were hell or heaven,
The fear of heaven or hell!
Lost in the life thus given
We well might bid farewell.

To leap against thy bosoms!
Live at thy ardent throat!
Kiss clinging to its blossoms,
Die kissing and not know't!
Wound in tumultuous tresses
Pulse like a naked hair,
Held in long hands for kisses,
And killed and never care.

Clasped limb and marble member,
Long raven hair with gold,
To dream, forget, remember,
Grow slowly still and cold.
Feel earth and hell forever
Remote from thee and me,
Nor strong enough to sever
Through all eternity.

Feel godlike power for evil
High throned within the heart,
Should God and hell's arch devil
Cast dice our souls to part:
Part eyes hot as a jewel,
Part covering deeps of curl,
Sweet lips as sweet as cruel,
And limbs of living pearl.

What if in the hereafter
Our love must weep farewell
'Mid the hoarse, strident laughter
Of devils deep in hell;
We'll know that all infernal,
All cactus-growth of time,
Slays not that hour eternal
That sinned with love to crime.

Love, we could live all tearless,
Remember and have breath,
Of hell and heaven fearless
In love more strong than death.
When hope shall be forgotten
And death be one with both,
Flesh, soul, and spirit rotten
And wrapped with clay in sloth.

Take comfort, love, remember
Love chastened with his rod,
And member torn from member
Would leave him still a god.
Though soul from soul be riven,
God knows we shall regret!
In hell or highest heaven
We never can forget!

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

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Miriam Miriam

White clouds and buds and birds and bees, Low wind-notes piped from southern seas, Brought thee a rose-white offering, A flower-like baby with the Spring. She, as her April, gave to thee A soul of winsome vagary; Large, heavenly eyes, and tender, whence Shone the sweet mind's soft influence; Where all the winning woman, that Welled up in tears, high sparkling sat. She, with the dower of her May,

St. John's Eve St. John's Eve

St. John's Eve
I Dizzily round On the elf-hills white in the yellow moonlight To a sweet, unholy, ravishing sound Of wizard voices from underground, Their mazy dance the Elle-maids wound On St. John's Eve. II Beautiful white, Like a wreath of mist by the starbeams kissed; And frail, sweet faces bloomed out on the night