A Coign Of The Forest

The hills hang woods around, where green, below     Dark, breezy boughs of beech-trees, mats the moss,     Crisp with the brittle hulls of last year's nuts;     The water hums one bar there; and a glow     Of gold lies steady where the trailers toss     Red, bugled blossoms and a rock abuts;     In spots the wild-phlox and oxalis grow     Where beech-roots bulge the loam, protrude across     The grass-grown road and roll it into ruts.     And where the sumach brakes grow dusk and dense,     Among the rocks, great yellow violets,     Blue-bells and wind-flowers bloom; the agaric     In dampness crowds; a Fungus, thick, intense     With gold and crimson and wax-white, that sets     The May-apples along the terraced creek     At bold defiance. Where the old rail-fence     Divides the hollow, there the bee-bird whets     His bill, and there the elder hedge is thick.     No one can miss it; for two cat-birds nest,     Calling all morning, in the trumpet-vine;     And there at noon the pewee sits and floats     A woodland welcome; and his very best     At eve the red-bird sings, as if to sign     The record of its loveliness with notes.     At night the moon stoops over it to rest,     And unreluctant stars. Where waters shine     There runs a whisper as of wind-swept oats.