The last poem in “Maine Coast,” Wilbert Snow has written an engaging poem describing New England fall season in six sections or nine pages. This poem deserves a complete, appreciative reading. The first three stanzas of Part I are followed by concluding passages:
New England is autumn’s county:
Spring is there, to be sure,
And trailing arbutus
As delicate as robins’ twilight singing;
Winter, too, is there,
As hard and bleak as Stoic happiness;
Gay summer, with its wonder world of laurel,
And fragrance rising warm from meadow haystacks.
But autumn is the land’s true season:
In autumn the boys from a thousand coast towns
Stand on the creek banks fishing for smelts
Whose amber scales to them are fairer
Then the golden nuggets of Alaskan mines.
In autumn the young men along the coast
And the middle aged men whom the season makes boys
Take from the racks above the kitchen doors
Their well-oiled guns and put out before dawn
To the brown shining rocks where the gray coots are feeding.
In autumn the big game hunters
Hear the call of the deep Maine woods,
The call of the bull moose snorting,
The frightened sniff of the graceful deer,
And the evanescent but enduring call
Of dapple sunlight under nut brown trees
Around a camp-fire before twilight at supper time,
With the curling smoke of the briar,
And the luxury of bodily weariness
Promising unbroken sleep.
The poem concludes with these lovely passages:
Success in every plunge and push a pathway to the stars,–
For mine the fiber of your soul when facing life’s illusions,
For mine the mood within your heart at noonday of Thanksgivings,
For mine your handsome, neat old age, the grandeur of your spirit,
That has matched your matchless autumn with an Indian Summer soul.
Thank you for following Wilbert Snow’s “Maine Coast” poems.