Low-anchored cloud,
Newfoundland air,
Fountain head and source of rivers,
Dew-cloth, dream drapery,
And napkin spread by fays;
Drifting meadow of the air,
Where bloom the dasied banks and violets,
And in whose fenny labyrinth
The bittern booms and heron wades;
Spirit of the lake and seas and rivers,
Bear only perfumes and the scent
Of healing herbs to just men's fields!
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Does anyone else find the description of mist as "dream drapery" ingenious? I think it's amazing. All I can do when I read this poem is feel like I am sitting in a swamp watching the long-legged birds in the low water with mist rising above them. Thoreau is always good for painting pictures in the mind. What a wonderful poem, I love it.
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