THE BRIDLE-PATH
I
Through meadows of the ironweeds,
Whose purple blooms hang, slipping
The morning dew in twinkling beads,
The thin path twists and, winding, leads
Through woodland hollows dripping;
Down to a creek of rocks and reeds;
On to a lilied dam that feeds
A mill, whose wheel through willow-bredes
Winks, the white water whipping.
II
It wends through meads of mint and brush
Where silvery seeds drift drowsy,
Or swoon along the heatful hush;
And where the bobwhite, in the bush,
The elder, blooming frowsy,
Keeps calling clear: then through a crush
Of crowded saplings, low and lush;
Then by a pool of flag and rush
With brier-rose petaled blowsy.
III
Thence, o'er the ragweed fallow-lot,
Whose low rail-fence encumbers
The dense-packed berries ripening hot;
Where, in the heaven, one far spot
Of gray, the gray hawk slumbers;
Then through the greenwood where the rot
Of leaves and loam smells cool; and, shot
With dotting dark, the touch-me-not
Swings curling horns in numbers.
IV
It winds round rocks that bulge and lie
Deep in damp ferns and mosses,—
Each like a giant on his thigh
Watching some forest quarry die;—
And thence it frailly crosses
A bramble-bridge; whence, whirring high,
A partridge startles,—'thwart the sky
A jarring light,—where, babbling by,
The brook its diamonds tosses.
V
And here the cohosh swings its snow,
Gaunt from the forest springing;
There gold the sorrel blossoms blow;
Here vari-colored toadstools sow,
Or swell the soil; and, swinging,
The trumpet-vine hangs red and low
Near boughs,—on which the beech-burrs glow,—
The woodland wind sways to and fro,
O'er waters wildly ringing.
VI
It leads us deep into the cane
Through spice-bush belts, where “tinkle”
One stray bell sounds, and then again,
Lost in some lone and leafy lane
Where smooth the clay ruts wrinkle . . .
A cloud looms up,—a grayish stain
Against the blue;—and wet with rain
The wind blows, denting down the grain
And leaves, the first drops sprinkle.
VII
The dust is drilled with raindrops.—One,
Then two quick gleams, then thunder;
And, scurrying with the dust, we run
Into a whiff of hay and sun,
Of cribs and barns; and under
Low martin-builded eaves,—where dun
The sparrows shelter,—watch the spun
Blue rain sweep down, that seems to stun
The world with wind and wonder.
VIII
A crashing wedge of stormy light,
Vibrating, blinds, and dashes
A monster elm to splinters white:
Then roaring rain: then, blinding bright,
A bolt again that crashes. . . .
The storm is over. Left and right
The clouds break; and, with green delight,
Fresh rain scents blow from wood and height
Where each blade drips and flashes.
IX
A ghostly gold burns slowly through
The chasm'd clouds; and blended
With rainy rose and rainy blue,
The heavens, pearled with many a hue,
Die like a dolphin splendid. . . .
High-buoyed in wrack, now one or two
Slight stars peep out—the pirate clue
To night's rich hoard.—In dusk and dew
Here is our pathway ended.
