The Grand River Marshes

Silvers and purples breathing in a sky     Of fiery mid-days, like a watching tiger,     Of the restrained but passionate July     Upon the marshes of the river lie,     Like the filmed pinions of the dragon fly.             *        *        *        *        *     A whole horizon's waste of rushes bend     Under the flapping of the breeze's wing,     Departing and revisiting     The haunts of the river twisting without end.             *        *        *        *        *     The torsions of the river make long miles     Of the waters of the river which remain     Coiled by the village, tortuous aisles     Of water between the rushes, which restrain     The bewildered currents in returning files,     Twisting between the greens like a blue racer,     Too hurt to leap with body or uplift     Its head while gliding, neither slow nor swift             *        *        *        *        *     Against the shaggy yellows of the dunes     The iron bridge's reticules     Are seen by fishermen from the Damascened lagoons.     But from the bridge, watching the little steamer     Paddling against the current up to Eastmanville,     The river loosened from the abandoned spools     Of earth and heaven wanders without will,     Between the rushes, like a silken streamer.     And two old men who turn the bridge     For passing boats sit in the sun all day,     Toothless and sleepy, ancient river dogs,     And smoke and talk of a glory passed away.     And of the ruthless sacrilege     Which mowed away the pines,     And cast them in the current here as logs,     To be devoured by the mills to the last sliver,     Making for a little hour heroes and heroines,     Dancing and laughter at Grand Haven,     When the great saws sent screeches up and whines,     And cries for more and more     Slaughter of forests up and down the river     And along the lake's shore.             *        *        *        *        *     But all is quiet on the river now     As when the snow lay windless in the wood,     And the last Indian stood     And looked to find the broken bough     That told the path under the snow.     All is as silent as the spiral lights     Of purple and of gold that from the marshes rise,     Like the wings of swarming dragon flies,     Far up toward Eastmanville, where the enclosing skies     Quiver with heat; as silent as the flights     Of the crow like smoke from shops against the glare     Of dunes and purple air,     There where Grand Haven against the sand hill lies.             *        *        *        *        *     The forests and the mills are gone!     All is as silent as the voice I heard     On a summer dawn     When we two fished among the river reeds.     As silent as the pain     In a heart that feeds     A sorrow, but does not complain.     As silent as above the bridge in this July,     Noiseless, far up in this mirror-lighted sky     Wheels aimlessly a hydroplane:     A man-bestridden dragon fly!