Meadows of gold dust. The silver Currents of the Connecticut fan And meander in bland pleatings under River-verge farms where rye-heads whiten. All`s polished to a dull luster In the sulfurous noon. We move With the languor of idols below The sky`s great bell glass and briefly engrave Our limbs` image on a field of straw And goldenrod as on gold leaf. It might be heaven, this static Plenitude: apples gold on the bough, Goldfinch, goldfish, golden tiger cat stock- Still in one gigantic tapestry— And lovers affable, dovelike. But now the water-skiers race, Bracing their knees. On unseen towlines They cleave the river`s greening patinas; The mirror quivers to smithereens. They stunt like clowns in the circus. So we are hauled, though we would stop On this amber bank where grasses bleach. Already the farmer`s after his crop, August gives over its Midas touch, Wind bares a flintier landscape.SourceThe script ran 0.005 seconds.
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