A whole horizon's waste of rushes bend Under the flapping of the breeze's wing, Departing and revisiting The haunts of the river twisting without end.  

  

  

      The torsions of the river make long miles Of the waters of the river which remain Coiled by the village, tortuous aisles Of water between the rushes, which restrain The bewildered currents in returning files, Twisting between the greens like a blue racer, Too hurt to leap with body or uplift Its head while gliding, neither slow nor swift  

  

  

      Against the shaggy yellows of the dunes The iron bridge's reticules Are seen by fishermen from the Damascened lagoons. But from the bridge, watching the little steamer Paddling against the current up to Eastmanville, The river loosened from the abandoned spools Of earth and heaven wanders without will, Between the rushes, like a silken streamer. And two old men who turn the bridge For passing boats sit in the sun all day, Toothless and sleepy, ancient river dogs, And smoke and talk of a glory passed away. And of the ruthless sacrilege Which mowed away the pines, And cast them in the current here as logs, To be devoured by the mills to the last sliver, Making for a little hour heroes and heroines, Dancing and laughter at Grand Haven, When the great saws sent screeches up and whines, And cries for more and more Slaughter of forests up and down the river And along the lake's shore.  

  

  

      But all is quiet on the river now As when the snow lay windless in the wood, And the last Indian stood And looked to find the broken bough That told the path under the snow. All is as silent as the spiral lights Of purple and of gold that from the marshes rise, Like the wings of swarming dragon flies, Far up toward Eastmanville, where the enclosing skies    

 Prev. P 58/125 next