Myth and Romance - Being a Book of Verses by Madison Julius Cawein
page 23 of 119 (19%)
page 23 of 119 (19%)
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Colossal of tread, like a giant, from echoing hour to hour
Goes striding in rattling armor ... The Nymph, at her billow-roofed dormer Of foam; and the Sylvan--green-housed--at her window of leaves appears; --As a listening woman, who hears The approach of her lover, who comes to her arms in the night; And, loosening the loops of her locks, With eyes full of love and delight, From the couch of her rest in ardor and haste arises.-- The Nymph, as if breathed of the tempest, like fire surprises The riotous bands of the rocks, That face with a roar the shouting charge of the seas. The Sylvan,--through troops of the trees, Whose clamorous clans with gnarly bosoms keep hurling Themselves on the guns of the wind,--goes wheeling and whirling. The Nymph, of the waves' exultation upheld, her green tresses Knotted with flowers of the hollow white foam, dives screaming; Then bounds to the arms of the storm, who boisterously presses Her hair and wild form to his breast that is panting and streaming. The Sylvan,--hard-pressed by the wind, the Pan-footed air,-- On the violent backs of the hills,-- Like a flame that tosses and thrills From peak to peak when the world of spirits is out,-- Is borne, as her rapture wills, With glittering gesture and shout: Now here in the darkness, now there, From the rain-like sweep of her hair,-- Bewilderingly volleyed o'er eyes and o'er lips,-- To the lambent swell of her limbs, her breasts and her hips, She flashes her beautiful nakedness out in the glare |
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