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 | The poet, the fool and the faeries |  |
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Swamp-Led
The old trees weep with mist; the pitcher-plant,Thrusting its crimson blossom from a whorl
Of purple-veinéd cups, that drip and curl,
Leers like a lip in dreams of old romant.
And, like the hair of some drowned girl, aslant
The wild grass trails its darkness in a swirl
Of long lagoon, wherethro', a sorry pearl,
The aster glimmers, death's last ministrant.
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That shags the rocks and pads the humps of trees,
Lest, yawning suddenly, a pit of death
Suck down the instant feet, to slide across
A form of ooze, with hands of slime that seize,
And, dragging slowly, clutch away the breath.
| The poet, the fool and the faeries | |