Verse > Anthologies > Jessie B. Rittenhouse, ed. > The Little Book of Modern Verse
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Jessie B. Rittenhouse, ed. (1869–1948).  The Little Book of Modern Verse.  1917.
 
152. Under Arcturus
 
By Madison Cawein
 
 
I
“I BELT the morn with ribboned mist;
  With baldricked blue I gird the noon,
And dusk with purple, crimson-kissed,
  White-buckled with the hunter’s-moon.
 
“These follow me,” the Season says:        5
  “Mine is the frost-pale hand that packs
Their scrips, and speeds them on their ways,
  With gypsy gold that weighs their backs.”
 
II
A daybreak horn the Autumn blows,
  As with a sun-tanned hand he parts        10
Wet boughs whereon the berry glows;
  And at his feet the red fox starts.
 
The leafy leash that holds his hounds
  Is loosed; and all the noonday hush
Is startled; and the hillside sounds        15
  Behind the fox’s bounding brush.
 
When red dusk makes the western sky
  A fire-lit window through the firs,
He stoops to see the red fox die
  Among the chestnut’s broken burrs.        20
 
Then fanfaree and fanfaree,
  His bugle sounds; the world below
Grows hushed to hear; and two or three
  Soft stars dream through the afterglow.
 
III
Like some black host the shadows fall,
        25
  And blackness camps among the trees;
Each wildwood road, a Goblin Hall,
  Grows populous with mysteries.
 
Night comes with brows of ragged storm,
  And limbs of writhen cloud and mist;        30
The rain-wind hangs upon his arm
  Like some wild girl who cries unkissed.
 
By his gaunt hands the leaves are shed
  In headlong troops and nightmare herds;
And, like a witch who calls the dead,        35
  The hill-stream whirls with foaming words.
 
Then all is sudden silence and
  Dark fear—like his who cannot see,
Yet hears, lost in a haunted land,
  Death rattling on a gallow’s-tree.        40
 
IV
The days approach again; the days
  Whose mantles stream, whose sandals drag,
When in the haze by puddled ways
  The gnarled thorn seems a crooked hag.
 
When rotting orchards reek with rain;        45
  And woodlands crumble, leaf and log;
And in the drizzling yard again
  The gourd is tagged with points of fog.
 
Now let me seat my soul among
  The woods’ dim dreams, and come in touch        50
With melancholy, sad of tongue
  And sweet, who says so much, so much.
 

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