Down Stream

Scarred hemlock roots, Oaks in mail, and willow-shoots Spring’s first-knighted; Clinging aspens grouped between, Slender, misty-green, Faintly affrighted: Far hills behind, Somber growth, with sunlight lined, On their edges; Banks hemmed in with maiden-hair, And the straight and fair Phalanx of sedges: Wee wings and eyes, Wild blue gemmy dragon-flies, Fearless rangers; Drowsy turtles in a tribe Diving, with a gibe Muttered at strangers; Wren, bobolink, Robin, at the grassy brink; Great frogs jesting; And the beetle, for no grief Half-across his leaf Sighing and resting; In the keel’s way, Unwithdrawing bream at play, Till from branches Chestnut-blossoms, loosed aloft, Graze them with their soft Full avalanches! This is very odd! Boldly sings the river-god: ‘Pilgrim rowing! From the Hyperborean air Wherefore, and O where Should man be going?’ Slave to a dream, Me no urgings and no theme Can embolden; Now no more the oars swing back, Drip, dip, till black Waters froth golden. Musketaquid! I have loved thee, all unbid, Earliest, longest; Thou hast taught me thine own thrift: Here I sit, and drift Where the wind’s strongest. If, furthermore, There be any pact ashore, I forget it! If, upon a busy day Beauty make delay, Once over, let it! Only, — despite Thee, who wouldst unnerve me quite Like a craven,— Best the current be not so, Heart and I must row Into our haven!