The Poetry Corner

A Gray Day.

By Madison Julius Cawein

I. Long vollies of wind and of rain And the rain on the drizzled pane, And the eve falls chill and murk; But on yesterday's eve I know How a horned moon's thorn-like bow Stabbed rosy thro' gold and thro' glow, Like a rich barbaric dirk. II. Now thick throats of the snapdragons, - Who hold in their hues cool dawns, Which a healthy yellow paints, - Are filled with a sweet rain fine Of a jaunty, jubilant shine, A faery vat of rare wine, Which the honey thinly taints. III. Now dabble the poppies shrink, And the coxcomb and the pink; While the candytuft's damp crown Droops dribbled, low bowed i' the wet; And long spikes o' the mignonette Little musk-sacks open set, Which the dripping o' dew drags down. IV. Stretched taunt on the blades of grass, Like a gossamer-fibered glass, Which the garden-spider spun, The web, where the round rain clings In its middle sagging, swings; - A hammock for Elfin things When the stars succeed the sun. V. And mark, where the pale gourd grows Up high as the clambering rose, How that tiger-moth is pressed To the wide leaf's underside. - And I know where the red wasps hide, And the wild bees, - who defied The first strong gusts, - distressed. VI. Yet I feel that the gray will blow Aside for an afterglow; And a breeze on a sudden toss Drenched boughs to a pattering show'r Athwart the red dusk in a glow'r, Big drops heard hard on each flow'r On the grass and the flowering moss. VII. And then for a minute, may be, - A pearl - hollow worn - of the sea, - A glimmer of moon will smile; Cool stars rinsed clean on the dusk, A freshness of gathering musk O'er the showery lawns, as brusk As spice from an Indian isle.