The Triumph Of Music: "A rope; a prayer; and an oak-tree near, And a score of hands to swing him clear. A grim, black thing for the setting sun, And the moon and the stars to gaze upon."
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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.
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The Triumph Of Music - Madison J Cawein
THE TRIUMPH OF MUSIC BY MADISON J. 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
The Triumph of Music
What You Will
In the South
Pan,
Pax Vobiscum
Mirabile Dictu
Questionings
Waiting
In Late Fall
Midwinter
Longing
In Middle Spring
Tyranny
Visions
The Old Byway
Diurnal
The Wood Path
Deficiency
He Who Loves
The Monastery Croft
The Dryad
The Sweet o' the Year
With the Seasons
Unattainable
Beyond
Shadows
Check and Counter-Check
Semper Idem
Two Lives
Forevermore
A Blown Rose
To-morrow,
Mnemosyne
The Sirens
The Vintager
A Stormy Sunset
On a Dial
Unutterable,
Midsummer,
A Fairy Cavalier
The Farmstead
Five Fancies: I. The Gladiolas
II. The Morning-Glories
III. The Tiger-Lily
IV. Vengeance
V. A Dead Lily
My Suit
The Family Burying-Ground
The Water-Maid
The Sea-King
Where and What?
The Spring
Lillita
Artemis
In November
A Character
A Mood
A Thought
Song
Face to Face
The Changeling
St. John's Eve
Lalage
Miriam
The Wind
Music
To ----
Yule
The Troubadour
Why?
From Unbelief to Belief
The King
Madison Cawein – A Biography
THE TRIUMPH OF MUSIC.
I
There lay in a vale 'twixt lone mountains
A garden entangled with flowers,
Where the whisper of echoing fountains
Stirred softly the musk-breathing bowers.
Where torrents cast down from rock-masses,
From caverns of red-granite steeps,
With thunders sonorous clove passes
And maddened dark gulfs with rash leaps,
With the dolorous foam of their leaps.
II
And, oh, when the sunrays came heaping
The foam of those musical chasms,
With a scintillant dust as of diamonds,
It seemed that white spirits were sweeping
Down, down thro' those voluble chasms,
Wild weeping in resonant spasms.
And the wave from the red-hearted granite
In veins rolled tumbling around;
Meandered thro' shade-haunted forests
Where many rock barriers did span it
To dash it in froth and in sound:
Where the nights with their great moons could wan it,
Or star its dusk stillness profound.
III
And here in the night would I wander
On woodways where fragrances kissed,
By shadows where murmurings kissed;
And here would I tarry to ponder
When the moon in blue vales made a mist;
Dim in forests of rank, rocking cedars,
Whose wildness made glad with their scent,
Whose boughs in the tempests were bent
Like the pennons and plumes of fierce leaders,
In the battle all ragged and rent.
IV
And so when the moonshine was floating
Far up on the mountain's bleak head,
On the uttermost foam of the torrent,
Would I string a wild harp while was gloating
The moon on my blossomy bed.
Or I lay where a fountain of blossoms
Rained rustling from arches aloft,
From the thick-scented arbors aloft,
And I sang as the blossoms' white bosoms
Pressed silk-smooth to mine and lay soft:
I sang as their redolence stung me,
And laughed on my blossomy couch,
Till the fragrance and music had flung me
Into shadows of sleep with their touch,
The magic of exquisite touch....
V
One night as I wondered and wandered
In this my rare Aidenn of flowers,
I saw where I lingered and pondered
A youth cast asleep mid the bowers:
A youth on a mantle of satin,
A poppy-red robe in the flowers.
VI
So I kissed his thin eyelids full tender,
I kissed his high forehead and pale,
I sighed as I kissed his black splendor
Of curls that were kissed of the gale,
That were moved of the balm-breathing gale.
And he woke and cried out as if haunted:
"Oh God! for one note of that song!
For a sob of that languishing song!
Whose tumult of sorrow enchanted,
And swept my weak spirit along!"
VII
Than I sate me upon the red satin
And plunged a long look in his eyes;
I bowed on the weft of red satin
And kindled his love with my sighs.
With fingers of lightness set sobbing
The chords of my harp in a song,
Till I found that my heart was a-throbbing
And sobbing to sing like a tongue,
Was sobbing to mix with the song.
VIII
Then he cried, and his dark eyes