Atavism

I always was afraid of Somes's Pond:Not the little pond, by which the willow stands,Where laughing boys catch alewives in their handsIn brown, bright shallows; but the one beyond.There, when the frost makes all the birches burnYellow as cow-lilies, and the pale sky shinesLike a polished shell between black spruce and pines,Some strange thing tracks us, turning where we turn.

You'll say I dream it, being the true daughterOf those who in old times endured this dread.Look! Where the lily-stems are showing redA silent paddle moves below the water,A sliding shape has stirred them like a breath;Tall plumes surmount a painted mask of death.