Classic Poem

Three creatures of the summer are to me
Of spirit import. First, the milkweed dun,
Diaphanous, most insubstantial wight
Of plantkind—satin seeds in silken sheaths
The winter long, a memory, not a flower
That reckons bloom and fragrance as its due.
Then the white birch, a ghost amongst its mates
In the forest, glimmering-boled and phantom-tall,
Crowned with a largess of most glossy leaves.
And last, the thrush, wood-hid, aloof and lone,
A disembodied voice, a phantasy,
That shapes the plastic soul to higher things.
Three summer creatures good to know and love.