Madison Cawein: done gone and got married

Madison Cawein married Gertrude McKelvey in Louisville, Kentucky, on June 4, 1903 at 7 a.m. The ceremony, which took place at St. Paul's Episcopal Church, was officiated by Rev. Reverdy Estell and was attended by only a few close relatives. The groom was 38, the bride (wearing a dark blue dress and white blouse and black hat) was 29. Almost exactly nine months later, they had their first and only child Preston Hamilton Cawein (mother and son are pictured here).

The happy husband had, by then, published nearly 20 books, mostly of poetry, and was earning a substantial income as a the popular "Keats of Kentucky." After the wedding, Mr. and Mrs. Cawein headed to Colorado for their honeymoon. As Mr. Cawein wrote a few days later, he wrote to his friend James Whitcomb Riley:

Well, here I am at the foot of Pike's Peak, in the heart of the Rockies, with the loveliest and sweetest girl in the world, spending my honeymoon. I have thought of you many a'time during our jaunts among the canons and cliffs, watching the mists gather and descend on the mountain heights, or gathering wild flowers, of which there is a vast profusion as well as variety, among the heaven-kissing hills, or sitting wondering by some mountain-torrent flinging its wild waters down the bouldered sides of a precipice in many a foaming and roaming cascade; like some snowwhite nymph tossing her arms of foam above her head and flaunting her wild hair of spray to the music of the wind-rocked pines.

Riley, you must not forget me now I have "done gone and got married." My wife is a beautiful, a talented girl; a singer as well as a musician; a reader of the best literature and appreciative of the best poetry, present and past. She has read your work, as every one has, and is full of enthusiasm for it. She is a girl of mind as well as soul...

Undoubtedly to Cawein's delight, Riley did not forget his newly married fellow writer. In fact, the Indiana poet dedicated a poem to his Kentucky friend, "To a Poet on his Marriage":

Ever and ever, on and on,
From winter dusk, to April dawn,
This old enchanted world we range
From night to light—from change to change—
Or path of burs or lily-bells,
We walk a world of miracles.

The morning evermore must be
A newer, purer mystery—
The dewy grasses, or the bloom
Of orchards, or the wood's perfume
Of wild sweet-williams, or the wet
Blent scent of loam and violet.

How wondrous all the ways we fare—
What marvels wait us, unaware! . . .
But yesterday, with eyes ablur
And heart that held no hope of Her,
You paced the lone path, but the true
That led to where she waited you.

Upon Cawein's death in 1914, he left his money, his property, his investments, and his copyright, to his widow, with the exception of a $1,000 fund for his son. By then, Cawein had suffered a reversal of fortune thanks to the stock market crash.

Death of Cawein: let us sleep, lass

Madison Cawein had been unconscious for some 87 hours before he finally died at 12:25 a.m. on December 8, 1914. He was 49 years old. His last act had been eating breakfast with his family before heading to the bathroom to shave. He locked the door and almost immediately slipped and hit his head on the side of the bath tub. His wife had to call for help to break open the door. His obituary reported that the accidental fall caused a blood clot in his brain. Family and physicians kept by his bedside for those several days, hoping he would wake up at any moment. He never did.

The Kentucky poet had, by then, earned a reputation both locally and nationally as a nature poet. Cawein himself, however, had grander hopes and wrote ambitious works that challenged the evolving world of American poetry after the turn of the century. Many of his works were politically charged, though these were generally ignored in favor of his verses celebrating his rural home state. He died in relative poverty.

Cawein left behind his wife Gertrude McKelvey (it was her birthday on the day of his death) as well as his young son Preston, who later legally changed his name to Madison Cawein II. He was buried in Louisville at Cave Hill Cemetery. Many of the articles reporting his death cited his poem "At the End of the Road" as a fitting final tribute to the poet:

This is the truth as I see it, my dear,
       Out in the wind and the rain;
They who have nothing have little to fear—
       Nothing to lose or to gain.
Here by the road at the end o' the year,
Let us sit down and drink of our beer,
Happy-Go-Lucky and her Cavalier,
       Out in the wind and the rain.

Now we are old, oh, isn't it fine,
       Out in the wind and the rain?
Now we have nothing, why snivel and whine?
       What would it bring us again?
When I was young I took you like wine,
Held you and kissed you and thought you divine—
Happy-Go-Lucky, the habit's still mine,
       Out in the wind and the rain.

Oh, my old Heart, what a life we have led,
       Out in the wind and the rain!
How we have drunken and how we have fed!
       Nothing to lose or to gain.
Cover the fire now; get we to bed.
Long was the journey and far has it led.
Come, let us sleep, lass, sleep like the dead.
       Out in the wind and the rain.

Cawein to Riley: recognition of your genius

"Dear old boy," began Madison Cawein's telegram to James Whitcomb Riley, dated, January 25, 1912:

I want to be the first to congratulate you on receiving the gold medal for poetry. Great enthusiasm at Institute dinner over the award. Am proud of you over this national recognition of your genius.

The award in question was from the National Institute of Arts and Letters, an organization which Riley joined in 1908. Cawein was in attendance at that dinner, not because he had any hope of receiving the award but, as he wrote, "I want to be present on that occasion and see to whom the gold medal is to be presented." Cawein and the other voting members selected Riley unanimously. Riley himself, however, was not present; only two years before his award, Riley suffered a debilitating stroke that left him without the full use of his writing hand, but also in a deep depression. He was also still battling his alcoholism. But the very public admiration was a bit of a boost to him, and 1912 became an important year for the "Hoosier Poet."

He was asked, for example, to record himself reading some of his poems. By October of that year, the governor of Indiana declared Riley's birthday as Riley Day, and schools celebrated his poetry that day. In that year, he also re-published Rhymes of Childhood, which became his highest selling book. By 1913, he returned to public appearances with the aid of a cane.

Cawein wrote to a friend that Riley's gold medal was "the crown for his life work." He admitted that Riley should "feel proud of that medal, as doubtless he does, and should now be content to die, as perhaps he is." The year 1912 proved less fortunate for the Kentuckian poet Madison Cawein, however. His financial situation suffered miserably from the stock market crash, though he also began writing some of his most ambitious poems. Two years later, he was added to the relief list of the Authors Club before he died in 1914. Riley joined him in death two years later.

Cawein II: Take you my sheaf of rhymes

When he was born in Louisville, Kentucky on March 18, 1904, he was named Preston Hamilton Cawein. His birth came nine months and two weeks after the marriage of his parents, Madison Cawein and Gertrude McKelvey. He was their only child. When he was still a boy, his famous poet father died; though well-known, he was financially destitute at the time. Three years later, at 13 years old, young Preston changed his name in honor of his father to Madison Cawein II.

The elder Cawein lamented that poetry after the turn of the century was becoming less important in society. The end result was the poetry was no longer a viable career, especially for those that had a family. He complained the end result of choosing the path of poetry left one with "nothing but worry and the grind of keeping a family up and enough money to live respectably on." But that same family also pressed him onward, particularly his young son, who inspired an entire book called The Giant and the Star. "I had no intention of writing these down," wrote Cawein, "But Preston pestered me so for stories." Preston had a surprising amount of creative control over his father's work — especially considering he was four years old at the time. As his father said, "He is one of the severest critics I have. He knows at once if a story is worth anything... If he failed to be interested in a story, I would leave it out." The first twenty copies of The Giant and the Star were given to Preston to distribute to his friends. The dedicatory poem, "To My Little Son Preston":

You, who are four years old;
You, with the eyes of blue;
You, with the age of gold
Young in the heart of you,
Boy with the eyes of blue:

You, with the face so fair,
Innocent-uttered words,
All the glad sunlight there,
Music of all the birds,
Boy, in your face and words:

Take you my sheaf of rhymes.
Sung for your childish ear;
Rhymes you have loved, at times
Begged for, and sat to hear,
Lending a loving ear.

Since you have listened, sweet,
They to some worth attained;
Since in your heart's young beat
They for a while remained,
They to some worth attained.

Cawein: words the whole world reads

Nothing defines Kentucky poetry like Madison Cawein. Born in Louisville in 1865, his prolific career as a poet earned him the nicknamed "the Keats of Kentucky." Echoing classic English poets like John Keats and Percy Bysshe Shelley, he carved a niche for himself as describing the unique nature of his home state during the late 19th century into the early 20th.

One of his many poems celebrating Kentucky life was presented in New York City on February 12, 1913 at a gathering of displaced Kentuckians, aptly named the New York Society of Kentuckians. The poem was simply titled "Kentucky" and it reminds his listeners of the ideal world they left behind:

You, who are met to remember
  Kentucky and give her praise;
Who have warmed your hearts at the ember
  Of her love for many days!
Be faithful to your mother,
  However your ways may run,
And, holding one to the other,
  Prove worthy to be her sons.

Worthy of her who brought you;
  Worthy in dream and deed;
Worthy her love that taught you,
  And holds your work in heed;
Your work she weighs and watches,
  Giving it praise and blame,
As to her heart she catches,
  Or sets aside in shame.

One with her heart's devotion,
  One with her soul's firm will,
She holds to the oldtime notion
  Of what is good, what ill;
And still in unspoiled beauty,
  With all her pioneer pride,
She keeps to the path of duty,
  And never turns aside.

She dons no new attire
  Of modern modes and tricks,
And stands for something higher
  Than merely politics;
For much the world must think on—
  For dreams as well as deeds;
For men, like Clay and Lincoln,
  And words the whole world reads.

Not for her manners gracious,
  Nor works, nor courage of
Convictions, proud, audacious,
  Does she compel our love—
But for her heart's one passion,
  Old as democracy,
That holds to the ancient fashion
  Of hospitality.

Cawein: an ode on The Republic

The "Keats of Kentucky," Madison Cawein wrote to his longtime correspondent Robert Edward Lee Gibson on July 27, 1912:

I am writing an ode on The Republic now, which I intend to be a protest against the attitude of the times, public and political, and a sort of appeal to God and the world of the lowly and the wise, for patience, etc. I think it is going to be a good poem, but don't know yet.

The poem which Cawein was writing, good or not, was published the next year in his book, The Republic: A Little Book of Homespun Verse. The title poem, "The Republic," filled nine pages. In it, Cawein criticizes politicians who "build authority" around "calumny and party hate." Instead, he elevates those who "sacrifice their honor for the State." He also rails against the "Proletariat," and calls for freedom and equality for all individuals. He believes that the chaos of current times will yield to peace and prosperity, if we are but patient and turn to God. After all, he writes, "God made our Country, wombing her with gold / And veining her with copper, iron, and coal." Here is just a short excerpt from the long poem:

By the long leagues of cotton Texas rolls,
And Mississippi bolls; a
By the wide seas of wheat
The far Dakotas beat
Against the barriers of the mountainland:
And by the miles of maize
Nebraska lays
Like a vast carpet in
Her House of Nights and Days,
Where, glittering, in council meet
The Spirits of the Cold and Heat,
With old Fertility whose heart they win:
By all the wealth replete
Within our scan,
From Florida to where the snows begin,
Made manifest of Nature unto Man—
Behold!
The Land is as a mighty scroll unrolled,
Whereon God writes His name
In harvest: green and gold
And russet making fair as oft of old
Each daedal part He decorates the same
With splendors manifold
Of mountains and of rivers, fruits and flowers;
Sealing each passage of the rubric Hours
With esoteric powers
Of life and love, and all their mystery,
Through which men yet may see
The truth that shall refute the fool that cries,
"God has forgot us and our great emprise!"

...God of the wise,

The meek and humble, who still look to Thee,
Holding to sanity

And truth and purpose of the great emprise.

Keep her secure,

And beautiful and pure

As when in ages past Thou didst devise,

Saying within Thy heart, "She shall endure!—

A great Republic!"—Let her course be sure,

O God, and, in detraction's spite,

Unquestionably right;

And in the night, 

If night there must be, light a beacon light

To guide her safely through the strife,

The conflict of her soul, with passions rife.

Cawein: true of myself and of all poets

One of the most respected writers from Kentucky, Madison Cawein still appreciated the opinion of friends. He wrote a letter to Robert Edward Lee Gibson, a minor poet from Missouri, on April 28, 1898:

You have always interested yourself so deeply in my work, and have expressed such great admiration for it, that I have been often at a loss how to show to you my appreciation of both. I have seized the opportunity of doing so, and dedicated my latest volume, Idyllic Monologues, to you, my friend. I think you will like the dedicatory stanzas when you see them. They are true of myself and of all poets of the present day; American poets, at any rate, and Southern and Western poets, particularly.

As promised, the book was dedicated "To my friend: R. E. Lee Gibson." That friend was also subject of the poetic forward:

And one, perchance, will read and sigh:
"What aimless songs! Why will he sing
Of nature that drags out her woe
Through wind and rain, and sun, and snow,
From miserable spring to spring?"
      Then put me by.

And one, perhaps, will read and say:
"Why write of things across the sea;
Of men and women, far and near,
When we of things at home would hear—
Well, who would call this poetry?"
      Then toss away.

A hopeless task have we, meseems,
At this late day; whom fate hath made
Sad, bankrupt heirs of song; who, filled
With kindred yearnings, try to build
A tower like theirs, that will not fade,
      Out of our dreams.

*The portrait of Cawein above dates to 1910, painted by the poet's friend John Bernard Alberts, Jr. The original is now in the collection of the Filson Historical Society in Kentucky.

Cawein: So mad, so wild is March!

"I was born in Louisville, Kentucky, March 23, 1865," wrote Madison Cawein, in response to a request about his biography. He spent much of his childhood in Kentucky and, for a time, Indiana ("Here I formed my great love for nature."). In high school, Cawein discovered writers like "Shelley, Scott, Goldsmith and Tennyson, mainly" and was inspired to attempt writing himself. "But my poor accomplishments as compared with their great ones filled me with despair very frequently.... and [I] determined to write no more."

Cawein changed his mind, however, and continued writing — though every poem he submitted for publication was rejected. Finally, upon graduating from high school in 1886 at age 21, he was elected class poet. He published his first book at his own expense and, with the help of a positive review from William Dean Howells, he suddenly became recognized as a poet. He earned the nickname "The Keats of Kentucky."

His first book Blooms of the Berry, published  in 1887 (the same year the image at left was taken), included the poem "Waiting":

...So mad, so wild is March!—
    I long, oh , long
To see the redbud's torch
    Flame far and strong;
Hear, on my vine-climbed porch,
    The bluebird's song.

How slow the Hours creep,
    Each with a crutch!—
Ah, could my spirit leap
    Its bounds and touch
That day, no thing would keep—
    Or matter much!

But now, with you away,
    Time halts and crawls,
Feet clogged with winter clay,
    That never falls,
While, distant still, that day
    Of meeting calls.

Cawein and Riley: bridging the gap

By the end of the 19th century, the so-called Fireside Poets were all dead, writers like Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, James Russell Lowell, John Greenleaf Whittier, and Oliver Wendell Holmes. But, with their deaths, who took their place as the greatest American poets?

Kentucky poet Madison J. Cawein earned the nickname "The Keats of Kentucky" and published over 1,000 poems. But, he looked to another as a leader among poets. To James Whitcomb Riley, he wrote on August 31, 1898:

You are surely making your way among the best readers of poetry; after the death of Holmes,—is borne in upon me more and more with every new book by you—that you are our greatest poet, the worthy successor and equal of our greatest,—Longfellow, Emerson, and Lowell. In all respect and honor to you I take my hat off... you are their equal, against odds, in literary art; and in my estimation surpass them often in truth, imagery and music:—winning, or having won, your way through your own efforts and inherent genius.

Cawein and Riley were part of a period in American poetry growing beyond the old-fashioned traditions of the Fireside Poets. In fact, when both died early in the 20th century, a critic noted in 1916 that they belonged to "the same school," an era of transition, "bridging the gap between the older poets, Longfellow, Lowell, Whittier and the rest." After their deaths, "that period may be said to have closed; and it was a period that deserves memory and respect."

Cawein once noted proudly "I have met all the poets that are poets at present in the United States." He listed Holmes and Lowell as people he visited at their homes but warned, "It would take too long to enumerate all the writers who have been my guests." From Cawein's poem "Beauty and Art":

The gods are dead; but still for me
  Lives on in wildwood brook and tree
Each myth, each old divinity...

To him, whose mind is fain to dwell
  With loveliness no time can quell,
All things are real, imperishable.

To him — whatever facts may say —
  Who sees the soul beneath the clay,
Is proof of a diviner day.

The very stars and flowers preach
  A gospel old as God, and teach
Philosophy a child may reach;

That cannot die; that shall not cease;
  That lives through idealities
Of Beauty, ev'n as Rome and Greece.

That lifts the soul above the clod,
  And, working out some period
Of art, is part and proof of God.