In August

DE the country road with truant

Wild carrot lifts its circles of white lace.

From vines whose interwoven branches

The old stone walls, come pungent scents of grape.

The sumach torches burn; the hardhack glows;

From off the pines a healing fragrance blows;

The pallid Indian pipe of ghostly

Listens in vain for stealthy moccasin.

In pensive mood a faded robin sings;

A butterfly with dusky, gold-flecked

Holds court for plumy dandelion

And thistledown, on throne of fireweed.

The road goes loitering on, till it hath

Its way in goldenrod, to keep a tryst,

Beyond the mosses and the ferns that

The last faint lines of its forgotten trail,

With Lonely Lake, so crystal clear that

May see its bottom sparkling in the

With many-colored stones.

The only

On its green banks is of the

Dipping for prey, but oft, these haunted nights,

That mirror shivers into dazzling lights,

Cleft by a falling star, a

From some bright battle lost,

Excalibur.