In August

BESIDE the country road with truant grace

Wild carrot lifts its circles of white lace.

From vines whose interwoven branches drape

The old stone walls, come pungent scents of grape.

The sumach torches burn; the hardhack glows;

From off the pines a healing fragrance blows;

The pallid Indian pipe of ghostly kin

Listens in vain for stealthy moccasin.

In pensive mood a faded robin sings;

A butterfly with dusky, gold-flecked wings

Holds court for plumy dandelion seed

And thistledown, on throne of fireweed.

The road goes loitering on, till it hath missed

Its way in goldenrod, to keep a tryst,

Beyond the mosses and the ferns that veil

The last faint lines of its forgotten trail,

With Lonely Lake, so crystal clear that one

May see its bottom sparkling in the sun

With many-colored stones. The only stir

On its green banks is of the kingfisher

Dipping for prey, but oft, these haunted nights,

That mirror shivers into dazzling lights,

Cleft by a falling star, a messenger

From some bright battle lost, Excalibur.