Poems of Madison Cawein Vol. 3 — The Log-Bridge

I

Last month, where the old log-bridge is laid O’er the woodland creek, in the belts o’ the shade, To the right and the left, pink-packed, was made A gloaming glory of scented tangle By the bramble roses there--that wade, High-heaped, from the banks--with many a braid That, wilting, powdered the ruts, and swayed, To the waters beneath, loose loops of spangle;

Where the breeze that blew and the beam that rayed Were murmurous-soft with the bees awrangle.

II

This month--’tis August--the lane that leads To the bramble-bridge runs waste with weeds, That bloom bright saffron, or satin seeds Of thistle-fleece blow at you, hazy: Starry the lane with the thousand bredes Of the yellow daisy, and bud-like beads Of marigold eyes, around which speeds The butterfly, sumptuous with mottle and lazy;

Whereunder the pewee picks and pleads, On the sumach’s tassel that dips to the daisy.

III

All golden the spot in the noon’s gold shine, Where the yellow-bird sits with eyes like wine And swings and whistles; where, line on line, In coils of warmth the sunbeams nestle;

Where cool by the pool (where the crawfish, fine As a shadow’s shadow, darts dim) to mine The wet creek-clay with their peevish whine, Come mason-hornets; and roll and wrestle With balls of clay they carry, and twine In hollow nests on the joists o’ the trestle.

IV

Where the horsemint shoots through the grasses,--high On the root-thick rivage that roofs,--a dry Gray knob that bristles with pink, the sigh Of crickets is heard; and the leaves’ deep bosoms Are pierced, at dusk, with a bird’s quick cry, A passing bird that twitters by: And the frogs’ grave antiphons rise and die;

And here, to drink, come the wild opossums: And here, to-night, will you and I Linger and lean while the great moon blossoms.