turns
An Indian face towards Earth and dies;
The west, like some gaunt vase, inurns
Its ashes under smouldering skies,
Athwart whose bowl one red cloud streams,
Strange as a shape some Aztec dreams.

Now shadows mass above the world,
And night comes on with wind and rain;
The mulberry-colored leaves are hurled
Like frantic hands against the pane.
And through the forests, bending low,
Night stalks like some gigantic woe.

In hollows where the thistle shakes
A hoar bloom like a witch's-light,
From weed and flower the rain-wind rakes
Dead sweetness--as a wildman might,
From out the leaves, the woods among,
Dig some dead woman, fair and young.

Now let me walk the woodland ways,
Alone! except for thoughts, that are
Akin to such wild nights and days;
A portion of the storm that far
Fills Heaven and Earth tumultuously,
And my own soul with ecstasy.

OTHER VOLUMES
BY
MADISON CAWEIN

THE GARDEN OF DREAMS

Printed on hand-made paper; bound in watered silk;
only a few copies remaining; price, $1.25 (net)

WEEDS BY THE WALL

Tastefully bound in silk cloth; price, $1.25

Sent on receipt of price to any address by

JOHN P. MORTON & COMPANY
PUBLISHERS
LOUISVILLE, KENTUCKY.

WILLIAM DEAN HOWELLS, in the _North American Review_ for January, 1902.

"One never praises an author for certain things without afterward
doubting if they were the characteristic things, or whether just the
reverse might not be said. Praise is, in fact, a delicate business, and
I, who am rather fond of dealing in it, never feel quite safe. Not only
is it questionable at the moment, but the later behavior of the author
is sometimes such that one is sorry not to have made it blame. It is
always with a shrinking, which I try to hide from the public, that I
take up the fresh venture of a poet whom I have once bet on. But there
is a joy when I find that I have not lost my wager, which is full
compensation for the anxiety suffered. This joy has lately been mine in
the latest little book of Mr. Madison Cawein, whose work I long ago
confessed my pleasure in. I am not sure that he has transcended the
limits which he then seemed to give himself as the lover, the prophet,
of beauty in the woods and waters and skies of the southern Mid-West. I
do not know that he need have done more than unlock the riches of
emotion within these limits