— Madison Cawein, in Truth
By Madison Cawein
All things are wrought of melody,
Unheard, yet full of speaking spells;
Within the rock, within the tree,
A soul of music dwells,— A mute symphonic sense that thrills
The silent frame of mortal things;
Its heart is in the ancient hills,
And in each flower sings. To harmony all growth is set;
Each seed is but a music note,
From which each plant, each violet,
Evolves its purple note. Compact of melody, the rose
Woos the soft wind with strain on
strain
Of crimson; and the lily blows
Its white bars to the rain. The trees are pæans; and the grass
One long, green fugue, beneath the
sun;
Song is their life, and all shall pass,
Shall cease, when song is done. — Madison Cawein, in Truth