A thin wet sky, that yellows at the rim, <br />And meets with sun-lost lip the marsh’s brim. <br /> <br />The pools low lying, dank with moss and mould, <br />Glint through their mildews like large cups of gold. <br /> <br />Among the wild rice in the still lagoon, <br />In monotone the lizard shrills his tune. <br /> <br />The wild goose, homing, seeks a sheltering, <br />Where rushes grow, and oozing lichens cling. <br /> <br />Late cranes with heavy wing, and lazy flight, <br />Sail up the silence with the nearing night. <br /> <br />And like a spirit, swathed in some soft veil, <br />Steals twilight and its shadows o’er the swale. <br /> <br />Hushed lie the sedges, and the vapours creep, <br />Thick, grey and humid, while the marshes sleep.<br /><br />E. Pauline Johnson (Tekahionwake)<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/marshlands-2/
