The Dyke
From dyke to hill-side sways the level sweep
Of all the ripened hay in mid-July;
A tideless sea of rustling melody,
Beside the river-channels of the deep.
Astray and straggling, or in broken heap,
Where birdlings flutter, dark the fences lie.
Far off, the tortuous rush-grown creek is dry,
Where looms the leaning barn like ancient keep.
A Neptune cuts across the sea of green
With chariot-music trembling to the hills;
And as the horses swim the grass divides,
Showing to heaven where his way has been.
The sounding wheel that bares what Natures hides
Drowns the low nestling-cry, and ruthless kills.
~~
John Frederic Herbin (1860-1923)
from The Marshlands, 1893
[Poem is in the public domain in Canada, the United States, and the European Union]
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