THE BRUSH
Onevery fire-swept blotch we stick,We are the thickImpenetrable brush—The nondescripts who rushTo claim the open. We’re the mass—We have no cliques, we have no class;We crowd and push,Tree and bush;Who keeps our frenzied paceIs welcome to the race.The affable spiræa likesTo bob her ivory spikes,Hobnobbing freeWith such a tolerable company.The dogwoods do not holdAloof from mingling with our fold;The snowdrop crowdSeem very proudTo dangle in the dancing lightTheir pretty balls of white;And if the willows do not careTo shareOur comradeship, they’ve kept their secret well.So with the snarling chaparralAnd manzanita with her thin,Red, scaling arms—and burry chinkapin.We do not banThat painted courtezan,Vine-maple, she whose fingers clutchEach place they touch.We do not fuss—Like other crowds, she’s part of us;As is the tremulousAnd quaking aspen; each little troopOf goldenrods; each whispering groupOf girlish alders and the countless breedsOf weeds.After our kind, we live;Week after week we giveOur dowerOf fruit and flowerIn little or largessAccordingly as we possess.In Autumn we hold carnivalAnd over allThe hills, our many-patterned carpet liesBright with a thousand dyes;Rich-tufted plushOf brush,Deep-grained and thick; this coveringEach year we bring—A dressOf wildest lovelinessTo merge in beauty more and moreThe ancient forest floor.
Onevery fire-swept blotch we stick,We are the thickImpenetrable brush—The nondescripts who rushTo claim the open. We’re the mass—We have no cliques, we have no class;We crowd and push,Tree and bush;Who keeps our frenzied paceIs welcome to the race.The affable spiræa likesTo bob her ivory spikes,Hobnobbing freeWith such a tolerable company.The dogwoods do not holdAloof from mingling with our fold;The snowdrop crowdSeem very proudTo dangle in the dancing lightTheir pretty balls of white;And if the willows do not careTo shareOur comradeship, they’ve kept their secret well.So with the snarling chaparralAnd manzanita with her thin,Red, scaling arms—and burry chinkapin.We do not banThat painted courtezan,Vine-maple, she whose fingers clutchEach place they touch.We do not fuss—Like other crowds, she’s part of us;As is the tremulousAnd quaking aspen; each little troopOf goldenrods; each whispering groupOf girlish alders and the countless breedsOf weeds.After our kind, we live;Week after week we giveOur dowerOf fruit and flowerIn little or largessAccordingly as we possess.In Autumn we hold carnivalAnd over allThe hills, our many-patterned carpet liesBright with a thousand dyes;Rich-tufted plushOf brush,Deep-grained and thick; this coveringEach year we bring—A dressOf wildest lovelinessTo merge in beauty more and moreThe ancient forest floor.
Onevery fire-swept blotch we stick,We are the thickImpenetrable brush—The nondescripts who rushTo claim the open. We’re the mass—We have no cliques, we have no class;We crowd and push,Tree and bush;Who keeps our frenzied paceIs welcome to the race.
The affable spiræa likesTo bob her ivory spikes,Hobnobbing freeWith such a tolerable company.The dogwoods do not holdAloof from mingling with our fold;The snowdrop crowdSeem very proudTo dangle in the dancing lightTheir pretty balls of white;And if the willows do not careTo shareOur comradeship, they’ve kept their secret well.So with the snarling chaparralAnd manzanita with her thin,Red, scaling arms—and burry chinkapin.We do not banThat painted courtezan,Vine-maple, she whose fingers clutchEach place they touch.We do not fuss—Like other crowds, she’s part of us;As is the tremulousAnd quaking aspen; each little troopOf goldenrods; each whispering groupOf girlish alders and the countless breedsOf weeds.
After our kind, we live;Week after week we giveOur dowerOf fruit and flowerIn little or largessAccordingly as we possess.In Autumn we hold carnivalAnd over allThe hills, our many-patterned carpet liesBright with a thousand dyes;Rich-tufted plushOf brush,Deep-grained and thick; this coveringEach year we bring—A dressOf wildest lovelinessTo merge in beauty more and moreThe ancient forest floor.