Martinson / Fulton
The swamp mosses drink of the stream . . .
The swamp mosses drink of the stream until it is more and more low-voiced. It sinks its watery clucking to a summer whisper, drowned out by midges. It soon changes to sign-language, which every tussock knows. Soon its hidden meaning blossoms up in moist buckbean.
Spruce stands bole by bole . . .
Spruce stands bole by bole with spruce They wrap themselves together hold a needly brim over the twin-flower bells. The flight of the grass-moth is low and fluttering with unheard wingbeats. Here the northern forest whispers its least song.