In Midas' Country

Meadows of gold dust. The silver

Currents of the Connecticut fan

And meander in bland pleatings under

River-verge farms where rye-heads whiten.

All's polished to a dull luster

In the sulfurous noon. We move

With the languor of idols below

The sky's great bell glass and briefly engrave

Our limbs' image on a field of straw

And goldenrod as on gold leaf.

It might be heaven, this static

Plenitude: apples gold on the bough,

Goldfinch, goldfish, golden tiger cat stock-

Still in one gigantic tapestry—

And lovers affable, dovelike.

But now the water-skiers race,

Bracing their knees. On unseen towlines

They cleave the river's greening patinas;

The mirror quivers to smithereens.

They stunt like clowns in the circus.

So we are hauled, though we would stop

On this amber bank where grasses bleach.

Already the farmer's after his crop,

August gives over its Midas touch,

Wind bares a flintier landscape.