Page:Poems, Volume 1, Coates, 1916.djvu/235



HOU lonely, dew-wet mountain road,

Traversed by toiling feet each day,

What rare enchantment maketh thee

Appear so gay?

Thy sentinels, on either hand

Rise tamarack, birch, and balsam-fir,

O'er the familiar shrubs that greet

The wayfarer;

But here's a magic cometh new—

A joy to gladden thee, indeed:

This passionate out-flowering of

The jewel-weed,

That now, when days are growing drear,

As Summer dreams that she is old,

Hangs out a myriad pleasure-bells

Of mottled gold!