On a maple’s pale bark,a zigzag ladder—old tooth-marksfrom a wandering snail?Green islands of mossbeckon across a fluttering seaof brown leaves.This cloud-filtered sunlightis perfect, says the photographeras her cheeks slowly turn red.
Trillium undulatumPainted lady, late riser,you rush out of the ground,get pollinated on the flysometimes beforeyour petals fully open,so that within one dayafter emergence they arealready turning translucent,your pink makeup fadingas the light-floodedforest dims to leaf-out.But that’s your trueelement, isn’t it?The shade.Even unpollinated
It sounded as if the Streets were runningAnd then -- the Streets stood still --Eclipse -- was all we could see at the WindowAnd Awe -- was all we could feel.By and by -- the boldest stole out of his CovertTo see if Time was there --Nature was in an Opal Apron,Mixing fresher Air.
Consulting summer's clock,But half the hours remain.I ascertain it with a shock --I shall not look again.The second half of joyIs shorter than the first.The truth I do not dare to knowI muffle with a jest.
The frog half fearful jumps across the path,And little mouse that leaves its hole at eveNimbles with timid dread beneath the swath;My rustling steps awhile their joys deceive,Till past,--and then the cricket sings more strong,And grasshoppers in merry moods still wearThe short night weary with their fretting song.Up from behind the molehill jumps the hare,Cheat of his chosen bed, and from the bankThe yellowhammer flutters in short fearsFrom off its nest hid in the grasses rank,And drops again when no more noise it hears.Thus nature's human link and endless thrall,Proud man, still seems the enemy of all.