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A Voice on the Wind by Madison Julius Cawein

A Voice on the Wind

AND OTHER POEMS

by Madison Cawein

[Illustration]

Louisville John P. Morton & Company, Publishers 1902

COPYRIGHTED 1902, BY MADISON CAWEIN

For permission to reprint several of the poems included in this volume thanks are due to the _Atlantic Monthly_, _Harper's Magazine_, _The Century Magazine_, _Smart Set_, _Saturday Evening Post_, and _Lippincott's Magazine_.

INSCRIBED

TO

EDMUND GOSSE

AS A SLIGHT TOKEN OF APPRECIATION AND ESTEEM

PROEM.

OH, FOR A SOUL THAT FULFILLS MUSIC LIKE THAT OF A BIRD! THRILLING WITH RAPTURE THE HILLS, HEEDLESS IF ANY ONE HEARD.

OR, LIKE THE FLOWER THAT BLOOMS LONE IN THE MIDST OF THE TREES, FILLING THE WOODS WITH PERFUMES, CARELESS IF ANY ONE SEES.

OR, LIKE THE WANDERING WIND, OVER THE MEADOWS THAT SWINGS, BRINGING WILD SWEETS TO MANKIND, KNOWING NOT THAT WHICH IT BRINGS.

OH, FOR A WAY TO IMPART BEAUTY, NO MATTER HOW HARD! LIKE UNTO NATURE, WHOSE ART NEVER ONCE DREAMS OF REWARD.

A Voice on the Wind

A VOICE ON THE WIND

She walks with the wind on the windy height When the rocks are loud and the waves are white, And all night long she calls through the night, "O, my children, come home!" Her bleak gown, torn as a tattered cloud, Tosses around her like a shroud, While over the deep her voice rings loud,-- "O, my children, come home, come home! O, my children, come home!"

Who is she who wanders alone, When the wind drives sheer and the rain is blown? Who walks all night and makes her moan, "O, my children, come home!" Whose face is raised to the blinding gale; Whose hair blows black and whose eyes are pale, While over the world is heard her wail,-- "O, my children, come home, come home! O, my children, come home!"

She walks with the wind in the windy wood; The sad rain drips from her hair and hood, And her cry sobs by, like a ghost pursued, "O, my children, come home!"

Where the trees are gaunt and the rocks are drear, The owl and the fox crouch down in fear, While wild through the wood her voice they hear,-- "O, my children, come home, come home! O, my children, come home!"

Who is she who shudders by When the boughs blow bare and the dead leaves fly? Who walks all night with her wailing cry, "O, my children, come home!" Who, strange of look, and wild of tongue, With pale feet wounded and hands wan-wrung, Sweeps on and on with her cry, far-flung,-- "O, my children, come home, come home! O, my children, come home!"

'Tis the Spirit of Autumn, no man sees, The mother of Death and Mysteries, Who cries on the wind all night to these, "O, my children, come home!" The Spirit of Autumn, pierced with pain, Calling her children home again, Death and Dreams, through ruin and rain, "O, my children, come home, come home! O, my children, come home!"


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