BESIDE the country road with truant grace <br />Wild carrot lifts its circles of white lace. <br />From vines whose interwoven branches drape <br />The old stone walls, come pungent scents of grape. <br />The sumach torches burn; the hardhack glows; <br />From off the pines a healing fragrance blows; <br />The pallid Indian pipe of ghostly kin <br />Listens in vain for stealthy moccasin. <br />In pensive mood a faded robin sings; <br />A butterfly with dusky, gold-flecked wings <br />Holds court for plumy dandelion seed <br />And thistledown, on throne of fireweed. <br />The road goes loitering on, till it hath missed <br />Its way in goldenrod, to keep a tryst, <br />Beyond the mosses and the ferns that veil <br />The last faint lines of its forgotten trail, <br />With Lonely Lake, so crystal clear that one <br />May see its bottom sparkling in the sun <br />With many-colored stones. The only stir <br />On its green banks is of the kingfisher <br />Dipping for prey, but oft, these haunted nights, <br />That mirror shivers into dazzling lights, <br />Cleft by a falling star, a messenger <br />From some bright battle lost, Excalibur.<br /><br />Katharine Lee Bates<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/in-august-2/
