I was always afraid of Somes's Pond: <br />Not the little pond, by which the willow stands, <br />Where laughing boys catch alewives in their hands <br />In brown, bright shallows; but the one beyond. <br />There, where the frost makes all the birches burn <br />Yellow as cow-lilies, and the pale sky shines <br />Like a polished shell between black spruce and pines, <br />Some strange thing tracks us, turning where we turn. <br /> <br />You'll say I dreamed it, being the true daughter <br />Of those who in old times endured this dread. <br />Look! Where the lily-stems are showing red <br />A silent paddle moves below the water, <br />A sliding shape has stirred them like a breath; <br />Tall plumes surmount a painted mask of death.<br /><br />Elinor Morton Wylie<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/atavism-2/
