Poem by Henry Thoreau

Mist

Low-anchored cloud
Newfoundlan air,
Fountain-head and source of rivers,
Dew-cloth, dream drapery,
And napkin spread by fays;
Drifting meadow of the air,
Where bloom the daisied banks and violets,
And in whose fenny labyrinth
The bittern booms and heron wades;
Spirit of lakes and seas and rivers,
Bear only perfumes and the scent
Of healing herbs to just men's fields!

1. Let Such Pure Hate Still Underprop
2. On Fields Oer Which the Reaper's Hand Has Passd
3. What's the Railroad to Me?
4. The Inward Morning
5. Indeed Indeed, I Cannot Tell

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