THE LOG-BRIDGE
I
Last month, where the old log-bridge is laid
O'er the woodland creek, in the belts o' the shade,
To the right and the left, pink-packed, was made
A gloaming glory of scented tangle
By the bramble roses there—that wade,
High-heaped, from the banks—with many a braid
That, wilting, powdered the ruts, and swayed,
To the waters beneath, loose loops of spangle;
Where the breeze that blew and the beam that rayed
Were murmurous-soft with the bees a-wrangle.
II
This month—'t is August—the lane that leads
To the bramble-bridge runs waste with weeds,
That bloom bright saffron, or satin seeds
Of thistle-fleece blow at you, hazy:
Starry the lane with the thousand bredes
Of the yellow daisy, and bud-like beads
Of marigold eyes, around which speeds
The butterfly, sumptuous with mottle and lazy;
Whereunder the pewee picks and pleads,
On the sumach's tassel that dips to the daisy.
III
All golden the spot in the noon's gold shine,
Where the yellow-bird sits with eyes like wine
And swings and whistles; where, line on line,
In coils of warmth the sunbeams nestle;
Where cool by the pool (where the crawfish, fine
As a shadow's shadow, darts dim) to mine
The wet creek-clay with their peevish whine,
Come mason-hornets; and roll and wrestle
With balls of clay they carry, and twine
In hollow nests on the joists o' the trestle.
IV
Where the horsemint shoots through the grasses,—high
On the root-thick rivage that roofs,—a dry
Gray knob that bristles with pink, the sigh
Of crickets is heard; and the leaves' deep bosoms
Are pierced, at dusk, with a bird's quick cry,
A passing bird that twitters by:
And the frogs' grave antiphons rise and die;
And here, to drink, come the wild opossums:
And here, to-night, will you and I
Linger and lean while the great moon blossoms.
