THREE creatures of the summer are to me Of spirit import. First, the milkweed dun, Diaphanous, most insubstantial wight Of plantkind -- satin seeds in silken sheaths The winter long, a memory, not a flower That reckons bloom and fragrance as its due. Then the white birch, a ghost amongst its mates In the forest, glimmering-boled and phantom-tall, Crowned with a largess of most glossy leaves. And last, the thrush, wood-hid, aloof and lone, A disembodied voice, a phantasy, That shapes the plastic soul to higher things. Three summer creatures good to know and love. |