Sylvia Plath

In Midas' Country

Meadows of gold dust. The silver Currents of the Connecticut fan And meander in bland pleatings under River-verge farms where rye-heads whiten. All's polished to a dull luster In the sulfurous noon. We move With the languor of idols below The sky's great bell glass and briefly engrave Our limbs' image on a field of straw And goldenrod as on gold leaf. It might be heaven, this static Plenitude: apples gold on the bough, Goldfinch, goldfish, golden tiger cat stock- Still in one gigantic tapestry— And lovers affable, dovelike. But now the water-skiers race, Bracing their knees. On unseen towlines They cleave the river's greening patinas; The mirror quivers to smithereens. They stunt like clowns in the circus. So we are hauled, though we would stop On this amber bank where grasses bleach. Already the farmer's after his crop, August gives over its Midas touch, Wind bares a flintier landscape.