Poems (Linn)/At North Conway
AT NORTH CONWAY.
IHAVE not seen how soft the light Falls on the waves of Southern seas;A dream to me, the flowing Rhine, A dream, the sunlit Pyrenees;And how the lingering sunbeams glowOn Alpine heights, I do not know.
But here the autumn colors burn In golden glory overhead;The maple and the sumach turn A miracle of glorious red;And on the mountains, towering high,The autumn's purple mantles lie.
The Saco, winding from the hills, Through forests deep, and dark and green,Reflects the blue of arching skies, Gleaming the woodland rifts between;Or ripples forth its lovely tale,Through the broad Conway Intervale,
Where ready stacked in yellow groups, Waiting the huskers' busy hands, Rustling with every passing breeze, The ripe corn's golden harvest stands;And rich the yield of orchard treesAs apples of Hesperides.
Oh! who can sigh for Southern lands, Breathing this air like sparkling wine,Sweeter than any vintage, pressed From far-famed Rhineland's clustering vine?For foreign lands, ah! who can sighWhile near at hand such beauties lie?