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Poems inspired by H. D. Thoreau’s account of a boat trip with his brother, published in 1849
XI, XII, XIII
XI
Our course now curved gracefully to the north.
Here, on the sloping banks, carpenters worked
at mending a scow, as busily as hornets
& mud wasps, with tools gleaming in the sun.
After passing Moore’s Falls by means of locks,
we pumped our oars, driving sand-pipers
from rock to rock before us, chasing shoals
of pickerel just below the transparent stream.
We rowed near enough cottages to see
sun-flowers leaning in their yards. At Bedford,
where stone masons were repairing the locks,
we spoke with one who raised his eyes
& looked upriver & seemed envious.
Ahead, on a rod of clear sand
amid the alders stood a solitary bittern.
One wonders, by its patient study
of rocks & sandy capes, has it not yet
wrested from Nature her whole secret?
Standing on one leg, it looks out
from its dull eye long upon sunshine
long upon rain, upon the moon & stars,
& on silent pools & dank fogs. “Farewell, heroes,”
it sighs, “henceforth, my lyre sings only of loves.”
As we settled to shore, the neighboring
woods stirred alive with pigeons. We could hear
the wiry murmur of their wings
as they changed roosts, & their gentle cooing.
As one loitered too close, we caught it
to be plucked & broiled, though it did not
seem quite right to do so.
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