BOG BOGLES 



down these garden paths hand in hand, or 

 the walrus and the carpenter sit beneath 

 the flat shade of these dado-decoration 

 leaves and swap poems. 



But, after all, the wonder of it is not the 

 quaint beauty of the arrangement but the 

 bewildering richness of the coloring of 

 these leaves. Only the faintest suggestion 

 of green is in them. Instead, they glow 

 with a velvety crimson maroon in varying 

 shades, a color inexpressibly soft and rich. 

 The blood-red of last year's cranberries 

 that form a floating bead edge to the bog 

 in many places is more vivid, but not so 

 rich. The lilies of next July will be lovely, 

 indeed, but never so sumptuously beautiful 

 or so full of quaint delight. 



At the end of the waterway you come 

 to a barrier of cassandra, which blocks 

 your further passage and half surrounds 



you with a low, irregular hedge. I fear 

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