CHICKAMAUGA LAKE

Where farmers’ cattle grazed on pasture lands, The fishes feed; the clumsy turtles swim Where once the corn crops grew; the frog expands His throat, proud of the pleasure given him; This lake now slips its fingertips between A hundred little pebbled hills, and all Are dressed in tender grass and leaves of green, With here and there an islet like a ball Half sunken in a pool, yet floating on To reach some distant shore. The swallows swing Their airplanes down and wet their beaks at dawn, And men awake to hear the thrushes sing. When day grows old and sun is westward bound, They stretch the shadowed trees across the lake, And duck and loon and gull and teal have found A place which fishermen will not forsake; And when the moon receives its silvered crown, The waters, like magicians, reach into The sky and pull the stars and planets down Without their heat, void of the distant blue; Then leave them floating in their watered graves, And as the boat speeds on, the pilot sees Amidst the rippled and discordant waves, Reflections broken by realities. This latent power decrees that through the years The form of woman shall remain unbowed By household toil which warped the pioneers Who slaved as sweaty beasts while farmers plowed And tilled the soil; that men shall play as well As work, and know what rest from labor means; That love of beauty in the heart shall tell That eyes are never blind to Nature’s scenes. If Chickamauga means in Cherokee A sluggish stream, this dam revives the dead, Electrifies the soul of Tennessee, And gives to industry a potent head.