At first a mere thread of a footpath half blotted
out by the grasses
Sweeping triumphant across it, it wound between hedges of roses
Whose blossoms were poised above leaves as pond lilies float on
While hidden by bloom in a hawthorn a bird filled the morning with
It widened a highway, majestic, stretching ever
to distant horizons,
Where shadows of tree-branches wavered, vague outlines invaded by
No sound but the wind as it whispered the secrets of earth to the
And the hum of the yellow bees, honey-laden and dusty with pollen.
And Summer said, "Come, follow onward, with no thought save the
The wind, and the bees, and the flowers, all singing the great song
Are minstrels of change and of promise, they herald the joy of the
Later the solitude vanished, confused and distracted
Where many were seeking and jostling. Left behind were
and the flowers,
The half-realized beauty of quiet, the sacred unconscious communing.
And now he is come to a river, a line of gray, sullen water,
Not blue and splashing, but dark, rolling somberly on to the ocean.
But on the far side is a city whose windows flame gold in the sunset.
It lies fair and shining before him, a gem set betwixt sky and water,
And spanning the river a bridge, frail promise to longing desire,
Flung by man in his infinite courage, across the stern force of
And he looks at the river and fears, the bridge is so slight,
yet he ventures
His life to its fragile keeping, if it fails the waves will engulf
O Arches! be strong to uphold him, and bear him across to the city,
The beautiful city whose spires still glow with the fires of sunset!
About the Author
Amy Lowell (February 9, 1874óMay 12, 1925) was an American poet of the imagist school from Brookline, Massachusetts who posthumously won the Pulitzer Prize for Poetry in 1926. She was born into Brookline's prominent...
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