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Genius Loci.
By Madison Julius Cawein
I.
What deity for dozing laziness
Devised the lounging coziness of this
Enchanted nook? - and how! - did I distress
His musing ease that fled but now, or his
Laughed frolic with some forest-sister, fair
As those wild hill-carnations are and rare?
Too true, alas! - Feel! the wild moss is warm
And moist with late reclining, as the palm
Of what hot Hamadryad, who, a-nap,
Props her hale cheek upon it, while her arm
Weak wind-flowers bury; in her hair the balm
Of a whole Spring of blossoms and of sap?
II.
See, how the dented moss, that pads the hump
Of these distorted roots, elastic springs
From that god's late departure; lump by lump,
Pale tufts impressed twitch loose in nervous rings,
As crowding stars qualm thro' gray evening skies.
Indulgence grant thou my profane surprise,
Pray! - then to dream where thou didst dream before,
Benevolent! ... here where the veiny leaves
Bask broad the fuzzy bosoms of their hands
O'er wistful waters: 'neath this sycamore,
Smooth, giraffe-brindled, where each ripple weaves
A twinkling quiver as of marching bands
III.
Of Elfin chivalry, that, helmed with gold,
Split spilled the scaley sunbeams wrinkled off.
What brought thee here? - This wind that steals the old
Weird legends from the forests, with a scoff
To laugh them thro' their beards? Or, in those weeds,
The hermit brook so busy with his beads? -
How many Aves, Paters doth he say
In one droned minute on his rosary
Of bubbles - wot'st thou? - Pucker-eyed didst mark
Yon lank hag-tapers, yellow by yon way,
A haggard company of seven? - See
How dry swim by such curled brown bits of bark?
IV.
Didst mark the ghostly gold of this grave, still,
Conceited minnow thro' these twisted roots,
Thrust o'er the smoky topaz of this rill,
Dull-slumbering here? Or did those insect flutes -
Sleepy with sunshine - buzz thee that forlorn
Tale of Tithonus and the bashful Morn?
Until two tears gleamed in the stealing stream
Trembling its polish o'er the winking grail? -
Nay! didst perplex thee with some poet plan
To drug this air with beauty to make dream, -
Ah, discreet Cunning, watching in yon vale! -
Me, wildwood-wandered from the marts of Man!
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