Lundy's Lane and Other Poems

by Duncan Campbell Scott


 

MID-AUGUST


 

FROM the upland hidden,
  Where the hill is sunny
  Tawny like pure honey
  In the August heat,
Memories float unbidden
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  Where the thicket serries
  Fragrant with ripe berries
  And the milk-weed sweet.

LIKE a prayer-mat holy
  Are the patterned mosses

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  Which the twin-flower crosses
  With her flowerless vine;
In fragile melancholy
  The pallid ghost flowers hover
  As if to guard and cover
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  The shadow of a shrine.

WHERE the pine-linnet lingered
  The pale water searches,
  The roots of gleaming birches
  Draw silver from the lake;

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The ripples, liquid-fingered,
  Plucking the root-layers,
  Fairy like lute players
  Lulling music make.

O TO lie here brooding

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  Where the pine-tree column
  Rises dark and solemn
  To the airy lair,
Where, the day eluding,
  Night is couched dream laden,
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  Like a deep witch-maiden
  Hidden in her hair.

IN filmy evanescence
  Wraithlike scents assemble,
  Then dissolve and tremble

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  A little until they die;
Spirits of the florescence
  Where the bees searched and tarried
  Till the blossoms all were married
  In the days before July.
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LIGHT has lost its splendour,
  Light refined and sifted,
  Cool light and dream drifted
  Ventures even where,
(Seeping silver tender)

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  In the dim recesses,
  Trembling mid her tresses,
  Hides the maiden hair.

COVERED with the shy-light,
  Filling in the hushes,

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  Slide the tawny thrushes
  Calling to their broods,
Hoarding till the twilight
  The song that made for noon-days
  Of the amorous June days
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  Preludes and interludes.

THE joy that I am feeling
  Is there something in it
  Unlike the warble the linnet
  Phrases and intones?

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Or is a like thought stealing
  With a rapture fine, free
  Through the happy pine tree
  Ripening her cones?

IN some high existence

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  In another planet
  Where their poets cannot
  Know our birds and flowers,
Does the same persistence
  Give the dreams they issue
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  Something like the tissue
  Of these dreams of ours?

O TO lie athinking—
  Moods and whims! I fancy
  Only necromancy

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  Could the web unroll,
Only somehow linking
  Beauties that meet and mingle
  In this quiet dingle
  With the beauty of the whole.
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