Madison Cawein

(1865-1914)

The wind makes moan, the water runneth chill; I hear the nymphs go crying through the brake; And roaming mournfully from hill to hill The maenads all are silent for his sake!

He loved thy pipe, O wreathed and piping Pan! So play'st thou sadly, lone within thine hollow; He was thy blood, if ever mortal man, Therefore thou weepest--even thou, Apollo!

But O, the grieving of the Little Things, Above the pipe and lyre, throughout the woods! The beating of a thousand airy wings, The cry of all the fragile multitudes!

The moth flits desolate, the tree-toad calls, Telling the sorrow of the elf and fay; The cricket, little harper of the walls, Puts up his harp--hath quite forgot to play!

And risen on these winter paths anew, The wilding blossoms make a tender sound; The purple weed, the morning-glory blue, And all the timid darlings of the ground!

Here, here the pain is sharpest! For he walked As one of these--and they knew naught of fear, But told him daily happenings and talked Their lovely secrets in his list'ning ear!

Yet we do bid them grieve, and tell their grief; Else were they thankless, else were all untrue; O wind and stream, O bee and bird and leaf, Mourn for your poet, with a long adieu!

MARGARET STEELE ANDERSON.

Louisville Post, December 12th, 1914.