H. L. Davis

From “Primapara”

I SEE a white river-bird, and I see the women

Among the weeds, the light of their dresses between

Quick willow leaves; and I see that there the wind

Comes like a bird from the river, and blows their dresses.

Today their pleasure’s among willows and high cold weeds

Where the flood bred pale snapdragons in the shade.

I lie in the high grass by the spring at their door

And hear them across the white stubble of their own field’s

Edge: along the willows in the sand where the reaper

Has never been driven, they go. It was the flood margin.

At the flood margin which they feared their pleasure is;

Their white dresses fly where the water felt at the young grain.

It seems they are silent, looking at the white bird.

“Does it follow us here?” And one, looking to the sky: “No,

There is nothing now till spring to be anxious for;

They are through reaping, the grain is gone, and two seasons

Are to come before spring comes: so enjoy the day.”

They come pleasantly through high weeds, old foam in the branches.