The River

RIVER. {For the Improvement Era ) It lies with waving current drawn, Across the level vale, A flag of light at crimson dawn, At eve, a penant pale Floating, as old forlorn and wan, As sunset colors fail. No noisy cities breast its banks, No life their green lines show— Save where some farm or village flanks Its waters' curving bow,— And whose still-running way outranks The river's tamest flow. Its ways are through still meadows where White clover-blossoms brim Cool shallows that its waters snare; And cornfields, tall and trim, March past in columns acre-square Along its peaceful rim,— And where long plains, in amber sleep Unbroken by a dream— Save as cloud-shades across them leap With pantomimic gleam— Press close the emerald lips that keep Their smiles for the lone stream. Its music is the lark's lute-note, And insects silver string That winds a reel within its throat And makes the marshes ring; The frogs* crude trills that nearby float At eve's awakening, Yet often, on its brooding ear, A note of warning falls— The steps of cities, pressing near, Shall print its banks with walls; And for the lark's song it shall hear Thick traffic's human calls. Then, when life's tumult tracks its way, May its calm heart be thrilled By notes no harsher-keyed than gay— And its cool breast be willed To keep a meadow-dream alway, For hearts with care-dust filled! Josephine Spencer. Salt Lake City, Utah.