The Covered Bridge

There, from its entrance, lost in matted vines,--
  Where in the valley foams a water-fall,---
  Is glimpsed a ruined mill's remaining wall;
  Here, by the road, the oxeye daisy mines
  Hot brass and bronze; the trumpet-trailer shines
  Red as the plumage of the cardinal.
  Faint from the forest comes the rain-crow's call
  Where dusty Summer dreams among the pines.
  This is the spot where Spring writes wildflower verses
  In primrose pink, while, drowsing o'er his reins,
  The ploughman, all unnoticing, plods along:
  And where the Autumn opens weedy purses
  Of sleepy silver, while the corn-heaped wains
  Rumble the bridge like some deep throat of song.