Madison Julius Cawein

He Who Loves

For him God's birds each merry morn
 Make of wild throats melodious flutes
To trill such love from brush and thorn
 As might brim eyes of brutes:
Who would believe of such a thing,
That 'tis her heart which makes them sing?

For him the faultless skies of noon
 Grow farther in eternal blue,
As heavens that buoy the balanced moon,
 And sow the stars and dew:
Who would believe that such deep skies
Are miracles only through her eyes?

For him mad sylphs adown domed nights
 Stud golden globules radiant,
Or glass-green transient trails of lights
 Spin from their orbs and slant:
Who would believe a soul were hers
To make for him a universe?