TAMARACK BLUE
33
Drowsy, at peace with all the droning flies;The woodchucks, quizzical and palpitant,That venture from their den among the logsTo query me for crumbs; the crippled doe,Who, lodging with me, crops my meadow-grassAnd tramples havoc in my bed of beets,Gloriously confident that I shall neverMuster the will to serve her with a notice!—To all that blessed vagrom companyWith whom I band myself against the world.And all its high concerns and tribulations.
Somehow the valley was uncommonlySerene and lovely, following the rain,The mellow benediction of the sun.The beaver-ponds that held upon their glassThe clean clear blue of noon, the pebbly brookMeandering its twisted silver ropeThrough hemlock arches, loitering in poolsClear-hued as brimming morning-glories, placid,Save when a trout would put a slow round kissUpon the water—these were beautiful.The rustle of winds among the aspen-trees,The fragrance on the air when my sorrel mount,Loping upon the trail, flung down her hoofs
