by Emily Pauline Johnson
A thin wet sky, that yellows at the rim,
And meets with sun-lost lip the marsh’s brim,
The pools low lying, dark with moss and mold,
Glint through their mildews like large cups of gold,
Among the wild rice in the still lagoon,
In monotone the lizard shrills his tune.
The wild goose homing, seeks a sheltering,
Where rushes grow, and cvoozing lichens cling.
Late cranes with heavy wing, and lazy flight,
Sail up the silence with the heaving night.
And like a spirit, swathed in some soft veil,
Steals twilight and its shadows O’er the swale.
Hushed lie the sedges, and the vapers creep
thick, gray and humid, while the marshes sleep.
* Emily Pauline Johnson was born on March 10, 1861,
Canada West. She is the author of three collections of
poetry. She died on March 9, 1913.
2 thoughts on “Marshlands”
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