Madison Cawein, whom English critics name the greatest living American poet, was born at Louisville, Kentucky, March 23, 1865. He was christened "Madison Julius Cawein," but he had not gotten far in the literary lane before his middle name was dropped, though the "J." may be found upon the title-pages of his earlier books. After some preparatory work he entered the Louisville Male High School, in 1881, at the age of sixteen years. At high school Madison Cawein began to write rhymes which he read to the students and teachers upon stated occasions, and he was hailed by them as a true maker of song. He was graduated in 1886 in a class of thirteen members. Being poor in purse, Mr. Cawein accepted a position in a Louisville business house, and he is one of the few American poets who wrote in the midst of such commercialism. His was the singing heart, not to be crushed by conditions or environment of any kind. The year after his graduation he collected the best of his school verse and published them as his first book, Blooms of the Berry (Louisville, 1887). In some way William Dean Howells and Thomas Bailey Aldrich saw this volume, praised it, and fixed the future poet in his right path. The Triumph of Music (Louisville, 1888), sounded after The Blooms of the Berry, and since that time hardly a year has passed without the poet putting forth a slender volume. The next few years saw the publication of his Accolon of Gaul (Louisville, 1889); Lyrics and Idyls (Louisville, 1890); Days and Dreams (New York, 1891); Moods and Memories (New York, 1892); Red Leaves and Roses (New York, 1893); Poems of Nature and Love (New York, 1893); Intimations of the Beautiful (New York, 1894), one of his longest poems; The White Snake (Louisville, 1895), metrical translations from the German poets; Undertones (Boston, The Poems of Madison Cawein (Indianapolis, 1907, five volumes), charmingly illustrated by Mr. Eric Pape, the Boston artist, with Mr. Gosse's introduction, brought together all of Mr. Cawein's work that he cared to rescue from many widely scattered volumes. He made many revisions in the poems, some of which (in the judgment of the writer) tend to mar their original beauty. But it is a work of which any poet may be proud; and it is not surpassed in quality or quantity by any living American. Mr. Cawein's Ode in Commemoration of the Founding of the Massachusetts Bay Colony (Louisville, 1908), which In March, 1912, literary Louisville celebrated the twenty-fifth anniversary of the publication of Blooms of the Berry, and the forty-seventh birthday of its author, Madison Cawein, the city's most distinguished man of letters. This was the first public recognition Mr. Cawein has received in the land of his birth, though it is now proposed to place a bust of him in the public library of Louisville. He is better known in New York or London than he is in Kentucky, but it will not be long before the people of his own land realize that they have been entertaining a world-poet, possibly, unawares. He is so far removed from any Kentucky poet of the present school that to mention him Mr. Cawein is, of course, a poet of Nature, a landscape poet in particular who paints every color on the palette into his work. Had he been an artist he would have exhausted all colors conceived thus far by man, and would fain have originated new ones. There are literally hundreds of his poems in which every line is as surely a stroke as if done with the brush of a painter. Color, color, is his shibboleth-scheme, and he who would woo Nature in her richest robes may read Cawein and be content. Amazing as it may seem Mr. Cawein has thirty-four volumes to his credit—almost one for every year of his life. This statement stamps him as one of the most prolific poets of modern times, if not, indeed, of all time. And that it is not all quantity, may be seen in the recent declaration of The Poetry Review of London: "He appears quite the biggest figure among American poets; his return to nature has no tinge of affectation; it is genuine to the smallest detail. If he suffers from fatigue, it is in him, at least, not through that desperate satiety of town life which with so many recent poets has ended in impressionism and death."
CONCLUSION [From Undertones (Boston, 1896)] INDIAN SUMMER [From Kentucky Poems (London, 1903)] The dawn is warp of fever, The eve is woof of fire; And the month is a singing weaver Weaving a red desire. With stars Dawn dices with Even For the rosy gold they heap On the blue of the day's deep heaven, On the black of the night's far deep. It's—'Reins to the blood!' and 'Marry!'— The season's a prince who burns With the teasing lusts that harry His heart for a wench who spurns. It's—'Crown us a beaker with sherry, To drink to the doxy's heels; A tankard of wine o' the berry, To lips like a cloven peel's. ''S death! if a king be saddened, Right so let a fool laugh lies: But wine! when a king is gladdened, And a woman's waist and her eyes.' He hath shattered the loom of the weaver, And left but a leaf that flits, He hath seized heaven's gold, and a fever Of mist and of frost is its. He hath tippled the buxom beauty, And gotten her hug and her kiss— The wide world's royal booty To pile at her feet for this. HOME [From Nature-Notes and Impressions (New York, 1906)] A distant river glimpsed through deep-leaved trees. A field of fragment flint, blue, gray, and red. Rocks overgrown with twigs of trailing vines Thick-hung with clusters of the green wild-grape. Old chestnut groves the haunt of drowsy cows, Full-uddered kine chewing a sleepy cud; Or, at the gate, around the dripping trough, Docile and lowing, waiting the milking-time. Lanes where the wild-rose blooms, murmurous with bees, The bumble-bee tumbling their frowsy heads, Rumbling and raging in the bell-flower's bells, Drunken with honey, singing himself asleep. Old in romance a shadowy belt of woods. A house, wide-porched, before which sweeps a lawn Gray-boled with beeches and where elder blooms. And on the lawn, whiter of hand than milk, And sweeter of breath than is the elder bloom, A woman with a wild-rose in her hair. LOVE AND A DAY [From The Poems of Madison Cawein (Indianapolis, 1907, v. ii)] I In girandoles and gladioles The day had kindled flame; And Heaven a door of gold and pearl Unclosed, whence Morning,—like a girl, A red rose twisted in a curl,— Down sapphire stairways came. Said I to Love: "What must I do? What shall I do? what can I do?" Said I to Love: "What must I do, Said Love to me: "Go woo, go woo." Said Love to me: "Go woo. If she be milking, follow, O! And in the clover hollow, O! While through the dew the bells clang clear, Just whisper it into her ear, All on a summer's morning." II Of honey and heat and weed and wheat The day had made perfume; And Heaven a tower of turquoise raised, Whence Noon, like some pale woman, gazed— A sunflower withering at her waist— Within a crystal room. Said I to Love: "What must I do? What shall I do? what can I do?" Said I to Love: "What must I do, All in the summer nooning?" Said Love to me: "Go woo, go woo." Said Love to me: "Go woo. If she be 'mid the rakers, O! Among the harvest acres, O! While every breeze brings scents of hay, Just hold her hand and not take 'nay,' All in the summer nooning." III With song and sigh and cricket cry The day had mingled rest; And Heaven a casement opened wide Of opal, whence, like some young bride, The Twilight leaned, all starry eyed, Said I to Love: "What must I do? What shall I do? what can I do?" Said I to Love: "What must I do, All in the summer gloaming?" Said Love to me: "Go woo, go woo." Said Love to me: "Go woo. Go meet her at the trysting, O! And 'spite of her resisting, O! Beneath the stars and afterglow, Just clasp her close and kiss her—so, All in the summer gloaming." IN A SHADOW GARDEN [From The Shadow Garden, and Other Plays (New York, 1910)] Shadow of the Man: Elfins haunt these walks. The place is most propitious and the time.— See how they trip it!—There one rides a snail. And here another teases at a bee.— In spite of grief my soul could almost smile.— Elfins! frail spirits of the Stars and Moon, 'Tis manifest to me 'tis you we see.— We never knew, or cared, once.—Would we had!— Our lives had proved less empty; and the joy, That comes with beautiful belief in everything That makes for childhood, had then touched us young And kept us young forever; young in heart— The only youth man has. But man believes In only what he contacts; what he sees; Not what he feels most. Crass, material touch And vision are his all. The loveliness, That ambuscades him in his dreams and thoughts, Is merely portion of his thoughts and dreams And counts for nothing that he reckons real; But is, in fact, less insubstantial than That great inhuman world of evidence, Which doubts and scoffs and steadily grows old With what it christens wisdom.—Did it know, The wise are only they who keep their minds As little children's, innocent of doubt, Believing all things beautiful are true. UNREQUITED [From Poems (New York, 1911)] Passion? not hers! who held me with pure eyes: One hand among the deep curls of her brow, I drank the girlhood of her gaze with sighs: She never sighed, nor gave me kiss or vow. So have I seen a clear October pool, Cold, liquid topaz, set within the sere Gold of the woodland, tremorless and cool, Reflecting all the heartbreak of the year. Sweetheart? not she! whose voice was music-sweet; Whose face loaned language to melodious prayer. Sweetheart I called her.—When did she repeat Sweet to one hope, or heart to one despair! So have I seen a wildflower's fragrant head Sung to and sung to by a longing bird; And at the last, albeit the bird lay dead, No blossom wilted, for it had not heard. A TWILIGHT MOTH [From the same] Dusk is thy dawn; when Eve puts on its state Of gold and purple in the marbled west, Thou comest forth like some embodied trait, Or dim conceit, a lily bud confessed; Goes softly messengering through the night, Whom each expectant flower makes its guest. All day the primroses have thought of thee, Their golden heads close-harmed from the heat; All day the mystic moonflowers silkenly Veiled snowy faces,—that no bee might greet, Or butterfly that, weighed with pollen, passed;— Keeping Sultana charms for thee, at last, Their lord, who comest to salute each sweet. Cool-throated flowers that avoid the day's Too fervid kisses; every bud that drinks The tipsy dew and to the starlight plays Nocturnes of fragrance, thy wing'd shadow links In bonds of secret brotherhood and faith, O bearer of their order's shibboleth, Like some pale symbol fluttering o'er these pinks. What dost thou whisper in the balsam's ear That sets it blushing, or the hollyhock's,— A syllabled silence that no man may hear,— As dreamily upon its stem it rocks? What spell dost bear from listening plant to plant, Like some white witch, some ghostly ministrant, Some specter of some perished flower of phlox? O voyager of that universe which lies Between the four walls of this garden fair,— Whose constellations are the fireflies That wheel their instant courses everywhere,— Mid faery firmaments wherein one sees Mimic Bootes and the Pleiades, Thou steerest like some faery ship of air. Gnome-wrought of moonbeam-fluff and gossamer, Silent as scent, perhaps thou chariotest His queen, Titania, on some midnight quest.— Oh for the herb, the magic euphrasy, That should unmask thee to mine eyes, ah me! And all that world at which my soul hath guessed! |