Classic Poem

Up the Minnesota through the mellow June,
Sky beneath our paddles tessellated blue;
Cottonwoods were moulting, meadow-larks in tune —
Up the green-roofed river shot our shell canoe.

I was stroking forward, you were stroking stern,
Under oaks and maples like a bird we flew;
Kingfishers, canaries, even cranes might learn
Points on steady steering, watching that canoe.

Overhead the blackbird flashed a crimson feather;
Down the marshy clearing " Indian paint-brush " grew;
Iris, gold and azure, half a mile together; —
Colors veered and vanished past our fleet canoe.

Afternoon forgot us for the yesterdays;
Then with slowing measure up to shore we drew;
Long we sat in silence by our dead-wood blaze,
Heard the drowsy river calling our canoe.

Fumes of fragrant coffee, pungent smoke of wood,
Blankets spread for slumber 'neath the tipped canoe; —
Oh, the golden Summer! Sweet it was and good
Up the Minnesota camping out with you!