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    Kentucky Poems: "Some reckon time by stars, And some by hours; Some measure days by dreams And some by flowers; My heart alone records My days and hours."
    Kentucky Poems: "Some reckon time by stars, And some by hours; Some measure days by dreams And some by flowers; My heart alone records My days and hours."
    Kentucky Poems: "Some reckon time by stars, And some by hours; Some measure days by dreams And some by flowers; My heart alone records My days and hours."
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    Kentucky Poems: "Some reckon time by stars, And some by hours; Some measure days by dreams And some by flowers; My heart alone records My days and hours."

    By Madison J Cawein

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    About this ebook

    Madison Julius Cawein (pronounced CAW-wine), known as “the Keats of Kentucky”, was born in Louisville, Kentucky, on 23rd March 1865. He often walked with his father, discovering the joys of his natural surroundings and unwittingly building the foundational love for nature upon which he based his poetry. He was prolific as a poet but struggled to find a large audience for most of what he published. However that volume of work should not detract you from its quality. For the last few years of his life he and his family were in a desperate financial position. He died on December 8th, 1914 of apoplexy. He was 49. Friends, fans and newspapers eulogized him as one of the greatest living American poets, and he was buried in Cave Hill Cemetery in Louisville, alongside his father. 1921 saw the publication of The Story of a Poet, and within its pages is a deeply affecting appraisal by Otto Arthur Rothert, who writes; Like Poe and Keats and many other true poets, Cawein did not receive a general recognition while he was still writing. He now awaits the wide and deserved recognition which time alone bestows. That the number of appreciators of Cawein’s works never decreased but slowly increased during his life-time points toward an enduring fame... Cawein’s greatest hope was that his poetry would live.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherCopyright Group
    Release dateOct 29, 2013
    ISBN9781783945481
    Kentucky Poems: "Some reckon time by stars, And some by hours; Some measure days by dreams And some by flowers; My heart alone records My days and hours."

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      Book preview

      Kentucky Poems - Madison J Cawein

      KENTUCKY POEMS BY MADISON CAWEIN

      Madison Julius Cawein (pronounced CAW-wine), known as the Keats of Kentucky, was born in Louisville, Kentucky, on 23rd March 1865. He often walked with his father, discovering the joys of his natural surroundings and unwittingly building the foundational love for nature upon which he based his poetry. 

      He was prolific as a poet but struggled to find a large audience for most of what he published. However that volume of work should not detract you from its quality.   For the last few years of his life he and his family were in a desperate financial position. 

      He died on December 8th, 1914 of apoplexy. He was 49.  Friends, fans and newspapers eulogized him as one of the greatest living American poets, and he was buried in Cave Hill Cemetery in Louisville, alongside his father.

      1921 saw the publication of The Story of a Poet, and within its pages is a deeply affecting appraisal by Otto Arthur Rothert, who writes; Like Poe and Keats and many other true poets, Cawein did not receive a general recognition while he was still writing. He now awaits the wide and deserved recognition which time alone bestows. That the number of appreciators of Cawein’s works never decreased but slowly increased during his life-time points toward an enduring fame... Cawein’s greatest hope was that his poetry would live.

      Index Of Poems

      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

      Madison Cawein – A Biography

      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 Mænad-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

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