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Swamp
alder
at the water
down where I had not been
since the place has grown natural
a bit of rainbow
maimed as a dead leg
Poems on the topic: swamp
Poems on the topic “swamp” on Poets.by.
The Swamp of Scoy's Pond
A roughcut logging trail
digs into underbrush climbs a hill
breaks into a clearing fast on swampwater
Hot wind maims scrub
feints at bracken tussock, pickerel weed'
hugging ditches
Three hawks in tandem
wheel
are
fibering air
In brown murk: the silt planes down
script of larva
blistering mud
Breath nears fever
halts altogether
as the surface
An Encounter
Once on the kind of day called ‘weather breeder,’
When the heat slowly hazes and the sun
By its own power seems to be undone,
I was half boring through, half climbing through
A swamp of cedar. Choked with oil of cedar
And scurf of plants, and weary and over-heated,
And sorry I ever left the road I knew,
I paused and rested on a sort of hook
That had me by the coat as good as seated,
And since there was no other way to look,
Looked up toward heaven, and there against the blue,
Stood over me a resurrected tree,
A tree that had been down and raised again--
A barkless spectre. He had halted too,
As if for fear of treading upon me.
I saw the strange position of his hands--
The Harvest Moon
The dark magnolia leaves and spreading fig
With green luxuriant beauty all their own,
Stirless, hang heavy-coated with the dew,
Which swift and iridescent gleams shoot through
As if a thousand brilliant diamonds shone.
Afloat the lagoon, water-lilies white
In sweets with muscadines perfume the night.
A song bird restless chants a fleeting lay;
Asleep on all the swamp and bayou lies
A peaceful, blissful moonlight, mystic haze,
A dreaminess o'er all the landscape plays.
While lake and lagoon mirror all the skies.
There is a glory doomed to pass too soon.
That lies subdued beneath the harvest moon.
Death of Love
Where sinks deep my love, dead love,
That so warmly glowed awhile?
Where the passion of my dreams
And the kiss of afterwhile?
In the City of Delight,
In the palace built of air,
In the smile of dying Day
And the vision of Despair.
Not where Morning shakes the dew
From the sunshine of her locks ;
Not where Evening breathes her flame
And the moon so gently rocks ;
But where gleams the firefly's wing
In the swamp of dead desire ;
And a fairy shrinks amazed
At the passing of the fire.
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