MILLPOND GARDENS

  

Your steps descend a narrow, bushy lane

And cross the threshold of the cottage door,

To cease upon the screened porch, stand before

The still pond. You dissolve into the scene.

 

A frog croaks; turtles dive; a heron flees

The blue jay that torments him.

                                                   From the banks

That slope beyond these waters, stony ranks

Of Union dead sleep in their winding sheets

Beneath a buttercup-bespangled lawn.

 

Now glowing in the pool’s translucent glare,

Which bodies forth your mind, the morning sun

Unfolds into Thoreau’s white lily there,

Away from Walden and the tourists’ stares--

And shines within you, first fruit of the dawn.