The Mohawk Trail

This is the month of the Prism.

In the cauldron of the four winds

They have melted the lances of moonlight,

And the silver stamens of hoar frost,

And wrought a great crystal.

Invisible, clear as air, it hangs between

Rose of the dawn and the lavender twilight.

The trees, that were green as sea water,

Change to lanterns, gay-painted, full of sun-fire.

The fields are of gold leaf, and the hills

Thrust thick with pins, jewel-headed,

Amber and ruby and opal.

The world swims in rainbows; for this

Is the flame-red month of the Prism,

And this is the trail of the wood-gods.