I have never been fishing on the Susquehanna
or on any river for that matter
to be perfectly honest.
I speak not
As I feel
Speaking is not essential
Silence speaks for itself
The bicycles go by in twos and threes -
There's a dance in Billy Brennan's barn to-night,
And there's the half-talk code of mysteries
And the wink-and-elbow language of delight.
The continent's a tamed ox, with all its mountains,
Powerful and servile; here is for plowland, here is
for park and playground, this helpless
Cataract for power; it lies behind us at heel
Some flowers are withered and some joys have died;
The garden reeks with an East Indian scent
From beds where gillyflowers stand weak and spent;
The white heat pales the skies from side to side;
In silent night when rest I took,
For sorrow near I did not look,
I waken'd was with thund'ring noise
And piteous shrieks of dreadful voice.
All the sweet pulsing aches
And gentle hurtings
That were you,
Murmuring by miriads in the shimmering trees.
Wakening with wonder in the Pyrenees.