Puslapio vaizdai
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I could not know the message that he | I HEAR the bells at eventide bore,

Peal slowly one by one, The springs of life from me

Near and far off they break and glide, Hidden; his incommunicable lore

Across the stream float faintly beautiAs much a mystery.


The antiphonal bells of Hull;
And as I followed far the magic player The day is done, done, done,
He passed the maple wood,

The day is done.
And when I passed the stars had risen

The dew has gathered in the flowers And there was solitude.

Like tears from some unconscious deep, The swallows whirl around the towers,

The light runs out beyond the long LIFE AND DEATH

cloud bars,

And leaves the single stars ;
I THOUGHT of death beside the lonely 'T is time for sleep, sleep, sleep,

'T is time for sleep.
That went beyond the limit of my sight,
Seeming the image of his mastery,

The hermit thrush begins again, The semblance of his huge and gloomy Timorous eremite, might.

That song of risen tears and pain,

As if the one he loved was far away : But firm beneath the sea went the great

“ Alas ! another day earth,

And now Good Night, Good Night,” With sober bulk and adamantine hold,



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Gilbert Parker



As one would stand who saw a sudden light
Flood down the world, and so encompass


And in that world illumined Seraphim
Brooded above and gladdened to his sight;
So stand I in the flame of one great thought,
That broadens to my soul from where she

Who, yesterday, drew wide the inner gates
Of all my being to the hopes I sought.

Man more than all men, Thou wast glad to

bless A woman's sacrifice and tenderness.


Her words came to me like a summer

song, Blown from the throat of some sweet night

ingale ; I stand within her light the whole day

long, And think upon her till the white stars I lift my head towards all that makes life

wise, And see no farther than my lady's eyes.


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Art's use ; what is it but to touch the

springs Of nature ? But to hold a torch up for Humanity in Life's large corridor, To guide the feet of peasants and of

kings! What is it but to carry union through Thoughts alien to thoughts kindred, and to

merge The lines of color that should not diverge, And give the sun a window to shine through! What is it but to make the world have

heed For what its dull eyes else would hardly

scan ! To draw in a stark light a shameless

deed, And show the fashion of a kingly man! To cherish honor, and to smite all shame, To lend hearts voices, and give thoughts a name!

II But wherein shall art work? Shall beauty

lead It captive, and set kisses on its mouth? Shall it be strained unto the breast of

youth, And in a garden live where grows no

weed? Shall it, in dalliance with the flaunting

world, Play but soft airs, sing but sweet-tempered Veer lightly from the stress of all great

wrongs, And lisp of peace 'mid battle-flags un

furled ? Shall it but pluck the sleeve of wanton

ness, And gently chide the folly of our time ? But wave its golden wand at sin's duress,

“ Ab me ! ah me!” to fallow

crime ? Nay; Art serves Truth, and Truth, with

Titan blows,
Strikes fearless at all evil that it knows.



songs ?

A woman's hand. Lo, I am thankful no That with its touch I have walked all my

days; Rising from fateful and forbidden ways, To find a woman's hand upon my brow, Soft as a pad of rose-leaves, and as pure As upraised palms of angels, seen in

dreams : And soothed by it, to stand as it beseems A man who strives to conquer and endure. A woman's hand I - There is no better

thing Of all things human ; it is half divine ; It hath been more to this lame life of

mine, When faith was weakness, and despair was


And say:



Why, let them rail ! God's full anointed


Have heard the world exclaim, “ We know

you not !

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They who by their soul's travailing have

Us nearer to the wonder of the suns.
Yet, who can stay the passage of the stars ?
Who can prevail against the thunder-

sound ?
The wire that flashes lightning to the ground
Diverts, but not its potency debars.
So, men may strike quick stabs at Cæsar's

They only make his life an endless force,
'Scaped from its penthouse, flashing through

the earth, And whelming those who railed about his Men's moods disturb not those born truly

great : They know their end ; they can afford to


As to an actor's ; and the curtain down,
We turn to face each other all alone
Alone, we two, who never yet did meet,
Alone, and absolute, and free : oh, then,
Oh, then, most dear, how shall be told the

tale ?
Clasped hands, pressed lips, and so clasped

hands again; No words. But as the proud wind fills the

My love to yours shall reach, then one

deep moan
Of joy; and then our infinite Alone.


E. Pauline Johnson

THE SONG MY PADDLE SINGS | August is laughing across the sky,

Laughing while paddle, canoe and I
West wind, blow from your prairie nest, Drift, drift,
Blow from the mountains, blow from the Where the hills uplift

On either side of the current swift.
The sail is idle, the sailor too ;
O wind of the west, we wait for you ! The river rolls in its rocky bed,
Blow, blow!

My paddle is plying its way ahead,
I have wooed you so,

Dip, dip,
But never a favor you bestow.

When the waters flip
You rock your cradle the hills between, In foam as over their breast we slip.
But scorn to notice my white lateen.

And oh, the river runs swifter now;
I stow the sail and unship the mast : The eddies circle about my bow :
I wooed you long, but my wooing 's past; Swirl, swirl !
My paddle will lull you into rest :

How the ripples curl
O drowsy wind of the drowsy west,

In many a dangerous pool awhirl ! Sleep, sleep!

And far to forward the rapids roar, By your mountains steep,

Fretting their margin for evermore ; Or down where the prairie grasses sweep,

Dash, dash, Now fold in slumber your laggard wings, With a mighty crash, For soft is the song my paddle sings. They seethe and boil and bound and splash.

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AT HUSKING TIME At husking time the tassel fades To brown above the yellow blades

Whose rustling sheath enswathes the corn

That bursts its chrysalis in scorn
Longer to lie in prison shades.
Among the merry lads and maids
The creaking ox-cart slowly wades
'Twixt stalks and stubble, sacked, and torn

At husking time.

The prying pilot crow persuades
The flock to join in thieving raids ;

The sly raccoon with craft inborn

His portion steals, - from plenty's horn His pouch the saucy chipmunk lades

At husking time.

Saw you there as you circled by,
Vale-environed a cottage lie -
Girt about with emerald bands,
Nestling down in its meadow lands?

you this on your thieving raids ?
Speak — you rascally renegades.
Thieved you also away from me
Olden scenes that I long to see ?
If O crows ! you have flown since morn
Over the place where I was born,
Forget, will I, how black you were
Since dawn, in feather and character ;
Absolve, will I, your vagrant band,
Ere you enter your slumber-land.

THE VAGABONDS What saw you in your flight to-day, Crows a-winging your homeward way


Arthur Weir

Hilloo, hilloo, hilloo, hilloo !

Swiftly in single file we go, HILLOo, hilloo, hilloo, hilloo !

The city is soon left far below, Gather, gather, ye men in white ;

Its countless lights like diamonds glow; The winds blow keenly, the moon is bright, And as we climb we hear the chime The sparkling snow lies firm and white; Of church bells stealing o'er the Tie on the shoes, no time to lose, We must be over the hill to-night.


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