Meadows of gold dust. The silver <br />Currents of the Connecticut fan <br />And meander in bland pleatings under <br />River-verge farms where rye-heads whiten. <br />All's polished to a dull luster <br /> <br />In the sulfurous noon. We move <br />With the languor of idols below <br />The sky's great bell glass and briefly engrave <br />Our limbs' image on a field of straw <br />And goldenrod as on gold leaf. <br /> <br />It might be heaven, this static <br />Plenitude: apples gold on the bough, <br />Goldfinch, goldfish, golden tiger cat stock- <br />Still in one gigantic tapestry— <br />And lovers affable, dovelike. <br /> <br />But now the water-skiers race, <br />Bracing their knees. On unseen towlines <br />They cleave the river's greening patinas; <br />The mirror quivers to smithereens. <br />They stunt like clowns in the circus. <br /> <br />So we are hauled, though we would stop <br />On this amber bank where grasses bleach. <br />Already the farmer's after his crop, <br />August gives over its Midas touch, <br />Wind bares a flintier landscape.<br /><br />Sylvia Plath<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/in-midas-country/
