of 



wraith in the leafless woods ; it has odor, too, and 

 color. But it is something more than all of these 

 that the soft blowing shad-bush means to me. Per- 

 haps the something is in its name, because it links 

 my inland round with the round of the sea ; and 

 because it links this present narrowing round with 

 the wide-winging round of the past. 



At the sign of the shad-bush I know the fish are 

 running, the sturgeon up the Delaware; the shad 

 into Cohansey Creek ; and through Five-Forks Sluice, 

 these soft, stirring nights, I know the catfish are 

 slipping. Is there any boy now in Lupton's Mead- 

 ows to watch them come ? to listen in the moonlit 

 quiet for the splashy splash, as the fish pass up 

 through the main ditch toward the dam ? 



At the sign of the shad-bush how swiftly the tides 

 of life rise ! how mysteriously their currents run ! 

 drifting, flying, flowing, creeping colors, perfumes, 

 forms, and voices across the heavens, over the 

 earth, and down the deep, dim aisles of the sea ! and 

 down the deep, dim aisles of our memories. 



