The Poetry Corner

A March Voluntary (Wind And Cloud)

By Madison Julius Cawein

I. Winds that cavern heaven and the clouds And canyon with cerulean blue, Great rifts down which the stormy sunlight crowds Like some bright seraph, who, Mailed in intensity of silver mail, Flashes his splendor over hill and vale, Now tramp, tremendous, the loud forest through: Or now, like mighty runners in a race, That swing, long pace to pace, Sweep 'round the hills, fresh as, at dawn's first start, They swept, dew-dripping, from The crystal-crimson ruby of her heart, Shouting the dim world dumb. And with their passage the gray and green Of the earth 's washed clean; And the cleansing breath of their might is wings And warm aroma, we know as Spring's, And sap and strength to her bourgeonings. II. My brow I bare To the cool, clean air, That blows from the crests of the clouds that roll, Pearl-piled and berged as floes of Northern Seas, Banked gray and thunder-low Big in the heaven's peace; Clouds, borne from nowhere that we know, With nowhere for their goal; With here and there a silvery glow Of sunlight chasming deeps of sombre snow, Great gulfs that overflow With sky, a sapphire-blue, Or opal, sapphire-kissed, Wide-welled and deep and swiftly rifting through Stratas of streaming mist; Each opening like a pool, Serene, cerule, Set 'round with crag-like clouds 'mid which its eye gleams cool. III. What blue is bluer than the bluebird's blue! 'T is as if heaven itself sat on its wings; As if the sky in miniature it bore The fields and forests through, Bringing the very heaven to our door; The daybreak of its back soft-wedded to The sunset-auburn of its throat that sings. The dithyrambics of the wind and rain Strive to, but cannot, drown its strain: Again, and yet again I hear it where the maples tassel red, And blossoms of the crab round out o'erhead, And catkins make the willow-brake A gossamer blur around the lake That lately was a stream, A little stream locked in its icy dream. IV. Invisible crystals of aerial ring, Against the wind I hear the bluebird fling Its notes; and where the oak's mauve leaves uncurl I catch the skyey glitter of its wing; Its wing that lures me, like some magic charm, Far in the woods And shadowy solitudes: And where the purple hills stretch under purple and pearl Of clouds that sweep and swirl, Its music seems to take material form; A form that beckons with cerulean arm And bids me see and follow, Where, in the violet hollow, There at the wood's far turn, On starry moss and fern, She shimmers, glimmering like a rainbowed shower, The Spirit of Spring, Diaphanous-limbed, who stands With honeysuckle hands Sowing the earth with many a firstling flower, Footed with fragrance of their blossoming, And clad in heaven as is the bluebird's wing. V. The tumult and the booming of the trees, Shaken with shoutings of the winds of March No mightier music have I heard than these, The rocking and the rushing of the trees, The organ-thunder of the forest's arch. And in the wind their columned trunks become, Each one, a mighty pendulum, Swayed to and fro as if in time To some vast song, some roaring rhyme, Wind-shouted from sonorous hill to hill The woods are never still: The dead leaves frenzy by, Innumerable and frantic as the dance That whirled its madness once beneath the sky In ancient Greece, like withered Corybants: And I am caught and carried with their rush, Their countless panic borne away, A brother to the wind, through the deep gray Of the old beech-wood, where the wild Marchday Sits dreaming, filling all the boisterous hush With murmurous laughter and swift smiles of sun; Conspiring in its heart and plotting how To load with leaves and blossoms every bough, And whispering to itself, "Now Spring's begun! And soon her flowers shall golden through these leaves! Away, ye sightless things and sere! Make room for that which shall appear! The glory and the gladness of the year; The loveliness my eye alone perceives, Still hidden there beneath the covering leaves, My song shall waken! flowers, that this floor Of whispering woodland soon shall carpet o'er For my sweet sisters' feet to tread upon, Months kinder than myself, the stern and strong, Tempestuous-loving one, Whose soul is full of wild, tumultuous song; And whose rough hand now thrusts itself among The dead leaves; groping for the flowers that lie Huddled beneath, each like a sleep-closed eye: Gold adder's-tongue and pink Oxalis; snow-pale bloodroot blooms; May-apple hoods, that parasol the brink, Screening their moons, of the slim woodland stream: And the wild iris; trillium, white as stars And bluebells, dream on dream: With harsh hand groping in the glooms, I grasp their slenderness and shake Their lovely eyes awake, Dispelling from their souls the sleep that mars; With heart-disturbing jars Clasping their forms, and with rude finger-tips, Through the dark rain that drips Lifting them shrinking to my stormy lips, VI. "Already spicewood and the sassafras, Like fragrant flames, begin To tuft their boughs with topaz, ere they spin Their beryl canopies a glimmering mass, Mist-blurred, above the deepening grass. Already where the old beech stands Clutching the lean soil as it were with hands Taloned and twisted, on its trunk a knot, A huge excrescence, a great fungous clot, Like some enormous and distorting wart, My eyes can see how, blot on beautiful blot Of blue, the violets blur through. The musky and the loamy rot Of leaf-pierced leaves; and, heaven in their hue, The little bluets, crew on azure crew, Prepare their myriads for invasion too. VII. "And in my soul I see how, soon, shall rise, Still hidden to men's eyes, Dim as the wind that 'round them treads, Hosts of spring-beauties, streaked with rosy reds, And pale anemones, whose airy heads, As to some fairy rhyme, All day shall nod in delicate time: And now, even now, white peal on peal Of pearly bells, that in bare boughs conceal Themselves, like snowy music, chime on chime, The huckleberries to my gaze reveal Clusters, that soon shall toss Above this green-starred moss, That, like an emerald fire, gleams across This forest-side, and from its moist deeps lifts Slim, wire-like stems of seed; Or, lichen-colored, glows with many a bead Of cup-like blossoms: carpets where, I read, When through the night's dark rifts The moonlight's glimpsing splendor sifts, The immaterial forms With moonbeam-beckoning arms, Of Fable and Romance, Myths that are born of whispers of the wind And foam of falling waters, music-twinned, Shall lead the legendary dance; The dance that never stops, Of Earth's wild beauty on the green hill-tops." VIII. The youth, the beauty and disdain Of birth, death does not know, Compel my heart with longing like to pain When the spring breezes blow, The fragrance and the heat Of their soft breath, whose musk makes sweet Each woodland way, each wild retreat, Seem saying in my ear, "Hark, and behold! Before a week be gone This barren woodside and this leafless wold A million flowers shall invade With argent and azure, pearl and gold, Like rainbow fragments scattered of the dawn, Here making bright, here wan Each foot of earth, each glen and glimmering glade, Each rood of windy wood, Where late gaunt Winter stood, Shaggy with snow and howling at the sky; Where even now the Springtime seems afraid To whisper of the beauty she designs, The flowery campaign that she now outlines Within her soul; her heart's conspiracy To take the world with loveliness; defy And then o'erwhelm the Death that Winter throned Amid the trees, with love that she hath owned Since God informed her of His very breath, Giving her right triumphant over Death. And, irresistible, Her heart's deep ecstasy shall swell, Taking the form of flower, leaf, and blade, Invading every dell, And sweeping, surge on surge, Around the world, like some exultant raid, Even to the heaven's verge. Soon shall her legions storm Death's ramparts, planting Life's fair standard there, The banner which her beauty hath in care, Beauty, that shall eventuate With all the pomp and pageant and the state, That are apart of power, and that wait On majesty, to which it, too, is heir." IX. Already purplish pink and green The bloodroot's buds and leaves are seen Clumped in dim cirques; one from the other Hardly distinguished in the shadowy smother Of last year's leaves blown brown between. And, piercing through the layers of dead leaves, The searching eye perceives The dog's-tooth violet, pointed needle-keen, Lifting its beak of mottled green; While near it heaves The May-apple its umbrous spike, a ball, Like to a round, green bean, That folds its blossom, topping its tight-closed parasol: The clustered bluebell near Hollows its azure ear, Low leaning to the earth as if to hear The sound of its own growing and perfume Flowing into its bloom: And softly there The twin-leaf's stems prepare Pale tapers of transparent white, As if to light The Spirit of Beauty through the wood's green night. X. Why does Nature love the number five? Five-whorled leaves and five-tipped flowers? Haply the bee that sucks i' the rose, Laboring aye to store its hive, And humming away the long noon hours, Haply it knows as it comes and goes: Or haply the butterfly, Or moth of pansy-dye, Flitting from bloom to bloom In the forest's violet gloom, It knows why: Or the irised fly; to whom Each bud, as it glitters near, Lends eager and ardent ear. And also tell Why Nature loves so well To prank her flowers in gold and blue. Haply the dew, That lies so close to them the whole night through, Hugged to each honeyed heart, Perhaps the dew the secret could impart: Or haply now the bluebird there that bears, Glad, unawares, God's sapphire on its wings, The lapis-lazuli O' the clean, clear sky, The heav'n of which he sings, Haply he, too, could tell me why: Or the maple there that swings, To the wind's soft sigh, Its winglets, crystal red, A rainy ruby twinkling overhead: Or haply now the wind, that breathes of rain Amid the rosy boughs, it could explain: And even now, in words of mystery, That haunt the heart of me, Low-whispered, dim and bland, Tells me, but tells in vain, And strives to make me see and understand, Delaying where The feldspar fire of the violet breaks, And the starred myrtle aches With heavenly blue; and the frail windflower shakes Its trembling tresses in the opal air.