High Moon 
wonder, so little would it take to fan these glowing 
petals into flame. 
The marsh marigolds of May spread the meadows 
with a glow of warmth, yet that was but a gilded fire 
beside the wilting, withering heat of this midsummer 
lily. That early flush has gone. There is hardly a 
fleck of spring’s freshness and delicacy on the fields, 
none of the tenderness of the bluets that touched 
everything in May, none even of the softness of the 
hardwood greens that lasted far into June. The colors 
are set now, dry and glistening, as if varnished over. 
The odors, too, have changed. They were moist and 
faint then, —the fragrance of the breath of things. 
Now they are strong, pungent, heavy, — the tried-out 
smells of the sweat of things. 
Life has grown lusty and lazy and rank. It stood 
no higher than the heads of the violets along my 
little river at the coming of June; to-day I cannot 
catch a glimpse of the water without breaking 
through a hedge of swamp milkweed, boneset, and 
peppermint. Here are turtle-head, joe-pye-weed, jew- 
el-weed, the budding goldenrods, and the spreading, 
choking, rasping smartweed. The year is full grown. 
It is strong, rich, luxuriant. 
153 
