Madison Julius Cawein
Madison Cawein (23 March 1865 – 8 December 1914) was a poet from Louisville, Kentucky, whose poem "Waste Land" has been linked with T. S. Eliot's later The Waste Land.
Cawein's father made patent medicines from herbs. Cawein thus became acquainted with and developed a love for local nature as a child. He worked in a Cincinnati pool hall as an assistant cashier for six years, saving his pay so he could return home to write. His output was thirty-six books and 1,500 poems. He was known as the "Keats of Kentucky."
In 1912 Cawein was forced to sell his Old Louisville home, St James Court (a two-and-a-half story brick house built in 1901, which he had ... more »
Click here to add this poet to your My Favorite Poets.
Madison Julius Cawein Poems
A Yellow Rose
The old gate clicks, and down the walk, Between clove-pink and hollyhock, Still young of face though gray of lock, Among her garden's flowers she goes At evening's close, Deep in her hair a yellow rose.
A Voice On The Wind
I She walks with the wind on the windy height When the rocks are loud and the waves are white,
The Road Home
Over the hills, as the pewee flies, Under the blue of the Southern skies; Over the hills, where the red-bird wings Like a scarlet blossom, or sits and sings:
The Iron Age
And these are Christians! God! the horror of it! How long, O Lord! how long, O Lord! how long Wilt Thou endure this crime? and there, above it, Look down on Earth nor sweep away the wrong!
The Old Barn
Low, swallow-swept and gray, Between the orchard and the spring, All its wide windows overflowing hay, And crannied doors a-swing, The old barn stands to-day.
A Broken Rainbow On The Skies Of May
A Broken rainbow on the skies of May, Touching the dripping roses and low clouds, And in wet clouds its scattered glories lost: So in the sorrow of her soul the ghost
The Spirit Of The Forest Spring
Over the rocks she trails her locks, Her mossy locks that drip, drip, drip: Her sparkling eyes smile at the skies
A Forest Child
There is a place I search for still, Sequestered as the world of dreams, A bushy hollow, and a hill
Frogs At Night
I heard the toads and frogs last night When snug in bed, and all was still; I lay and listened there until It seemed a church where one, with might, Was preaching high and very shrill: 'The will of God! The will of God!'
The Old Water Mill
Wild ridge on ridge the wooded hills arise, Between whose breezy vistas gulfs of skies Pilot great clouds like towering argosies,
THE old house leans upon a tree Like some old man upon a staff: The night wind in its ancient porch Sounds like a hollow laugh.
Rain and black night. Beneath the covered bridge The rushing Fork that roars among its rocks. Nothing is out. Nothing? What's that which blocks The long grey road upon the rain-swept ridge?
The Magic Purse
WHAT is the gold of mortal-kind To that men find Deep in the poet's mind! — That magic purse
Old Jack Frost
Last night we were kept awake. Could n't sleep for Old Jack Frost; Wandering round like some old ghost. Gave the door an awful shake; Knocked against my bed's brass post.
Comments about Madison Julius Cawein
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
(26 April 1564 - 23 April 1616)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
(31 May 1819 - 26 March 1892)
(31 October 1795 – 23 February 1821)
A Yellow Rose
The old gate clicks, and down the walk,
Between clove-pink and hollyhock,
Still young of face though gray of lock,
Among her garden's flowers she goes
At evening's close,
Deep in her hair a yellow rose.
The old house shows one gable-peak
Above its trees; and sage and leek
Blend with the rose their scents: the creek,
Leaf-hidden, past the garden flows,
That on it snows
Pale petals of the yellow rose.
The crickets pipe in dewy damps;
And everywhere the fireflies' lamps
Flame like the lights of Faery camps;
While, overhead, the soft sky ...