Puslapio vaizdai


is gone.


Have the rough years, so big with death One long last look, and many a sad adieu, and ill,

While eyes can see and heart can feel Gone lightly by and left them smiling

you yet, yet?

I leave sweet home and sweeter hearts to Wild black-eyed Jeanne whose tongue was

you, never still,

A prayer for Picaud, one for pale Lisette, Old wrinkled Picaud, Pierre and pale A kiss for Pierre, my little Jacques, and Lisette,

thee, The homely hearts that never cared to A sigh for Jeanne, a sob for Verginie.

range, While life's wide fields were filled with Oh, does she still remember? Is the dream rush and change.

Now dead, or has she found another

mate ? And where is Jacques, and where is Ver- So near, so dear; and ah, so swift the ginie ?

stream ; I cannot tell; the fields are all a blur. Even now perhaps it were not yet too The lowing cows whose shapes I scarcely

late. see,

But, oh, what matter; for, before the night Oh, do they wait and do they call for her? Has reached its middle, we have far to And is she changed, or is her heart still clear

Bend to your paddles, comrades ; see, the As wind or morning, light as river foam ? light Or have life's changes borne her far from Ebbs off apace ; we must not linger so. here,

Aye thus it is! Heaven gleams and then And far from rest, and far from help and home?

Once, twice, it smiles, and still we wander Ah comrades, soft, and let us rest awhile, For arms grow tired with paddling many a mile.

A FORECAST The woods grow wild, and from the rising shore

What days await this woman, whose The cool wind creeps, the faint wood strange feet odors steal ;

Breathe spells, whose presence makes men Like ghosts adown the river's blackening dream like wine, floor

Tall, free and slender as the forest pine, The misty fumes begin to creep and reel. Whose form is moulded music, through Once more I leave you, wandering toward

whose sweet the night,

Frank eyes I feel the very heart's least Sweet home, sweet heart, that would

beat, have held me in ;

Keen, passionate, and full of dreams and Whither I


I know not, and the light Is faint before, and rest is hard to win. How in the end, and to what man's desire Ah, sweet ye were and near to heaven's Shall all this yield, whose lips shall these gate;

lips meet ? But youth is blind and wisdom comes too One thing I know : if he be great and late.


This love, this fire, this beauty shall endure ; Blacker and loftier grow the woods, and Triumph and hope shall lead him by the hark !

palm : The freshening roar! The chute is near But if not this, some differing thing he be, us now,

That dream shall break in terror ; he shall And dim the canyon grows, and inky dark The water whispering from the birchen The whirlwind ripen, where he sowed the prow.


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The beat, the thunder, and the hiss

Cease not, and change not, night nor day. ONCE ye were happy, once by many a shore,

And moving at unheard commands, Wherever Glooscap's gentle feet might The abysses and vast fires between, stray,

Flit figures that, with clanking hands,
Lulled by his presence like a dream, ye Obey a hideous routine.

They are not flesh, they are not bone,
Floating at rest ; but that was long of yore. They see not with the human eye,
He was too good for earthly men; he bore And from their iron lips is blown
Their bitter deeds for many a patient day,

A dreadful and monotonous cry.
And then at last he took his unseen way.

And whoso of our mortal race
He was your friend, and ye might rest no Should find that city unaware,

Lean Death would smite him face to face, And now, though many hundred altering And blanch him with its venomed air ; years

Or, caught by the terrific spell,
Have passed, among the desolate northern Each thread of memory snapped and cut,

His soul would shrivel, and its shell
Still must ye search and wander queru- Go rattling like an empty nut.

Crying for Glooscap, still bemoan the light It was not always so, but once,
With weird entreaties, and in agony In days that no man thinks upon,
With awful laughter pierce the lonely night. Fair voices echoed from its stones,

The light above it leaped and shone.

Once there were multitudes of men
THE CITY OF THE END OF That built that city in their pride,

Until its might was made, and then

They withered, age by age, and died ;
BESIDE the pounding cataracts

And now of that prodigious race
Of midnight streams unknown to us, Three only in an iron tower,
'Tis builded in the dismal tracts

Set like carved idols face to face,
And valleys huge of Tartarus.

Remain the masters of its power ;
Lurid and lofty and vast it seems ;

And at the city gate a fourth,
It hath no rounded name that rings, Gigantic and with dreadful eyes,
But I have heard it called in dreams Sits looking toward the lightless north,
The City of the End of Things.

Beyond the reach of memories :

Fast-rooted to the lurid floor,
Its roofs and iron towers have grown A bulk that never moves a jot,
None knoweth how high within the night, In his pale body dwells no more
But in its murky streets far down

Or mind or soul, — an idiot !
A flaming terrible and bright
Shakes all the stalking shadows there, But some time in the end those three
Across the walls, across the floors,

Shall perish and their hands be still,
And shifts upon


And with the masters' touch shall flee
From out a thousand furnace doors ;

Their incommunicable skill.
And all the while an awful sound

A stillness, absolute as death,
Keeps roaring on continually,

Along the slacking wheels shall lie,
And crashes in the ceaseless round

And, flagging at a single breath,
Of a gigantic harmony.

The fires shall smoulder out and die.
Through its grim depths reëchoing, The roar shall vanish at its height,
And all its weary height of walls,

And over that tremendous town
With measured roar and iron ring,

The silence of eternal night
The inhuman music lifts and falls.

Shall gather close and settle down.
Where no thing rests and no man is, All its grim grandeur, tower and hall,
And only fire and night hold sway,

Shall be abandoned utterly,

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And into rust and dust shali fall
From century to century.
Nor ever living thing shall grow,
Or trunk of tree or blade of grass ;
No drop shall fall, no wind shall blow,

Nor sound of any foot shall pass.
Alone of its accursèd state
One thing the hand of Time shall spare,
For the grim Idiot at the gate
Is deathless and eternal there!

Bliss Carman


Love, whom the fingers of death are quell

ing, MARIAN DRURY, Marian Drury,

Cries you a cheer from the Norland How are the marshes full of the sea !

home. Acadie dreams of your coming home All year through, and her heart gets Marian Drury, Marian Drury, free,

How are the marshes filled with you !

Grand Pré dreams of your coming home, Free on the trail of the wind to travel, Dreams while the rainbirds all night Search and course with the roving tide,

through, All year long where his hands unravel Blossom and berry the marshes hide. Far in the uplands calling to win you,

Tease the brown dusk on the marshes Marian Drury, Marian Drury,

wide ; How are the marshes full of the surge ! And never the burning heart within you April over the Norland now

Stirs in your sleep by the roving tide. Walks in the quiet from verge to verge.

A SEA CHILD Burying, brimming, the building billows The lover of child Marjory

Fret the long dikes with uneasy foam. Had one white hour of life brim full ; Drenched with gold weather, the idling Now the old nurse, the rocking sea, willows

Hath him to lull. Kiss you a hand from the Norland home.

The daughter of child Marjory

Hath in her veins, to beat and run, Marian Drury, Marian Drury,

The glad indomitable sea,
How are the marshes full of the sun !

The strong white sun.
Blomidon waits for your coming home,
All day long where the white wings


She lived where the mountains go down to All spring through they falter and follow,

Wander, and beckon the roving tide, And river and tide confer.
Wheel and float with the veering swallow, Golden Rowan, in Menalowan,
Lift you a voice from the blue hill- Was the name they gave to her.

She had the soul no circumstance
Marian Drury, Marian Drury,

Can hurry or defer. How are the marshes full of the rain !

Golden Rowan, of Menalowan, April over the Norland now

How time stood still for her! Bugles for rapture, and rouses pain,

Her playmates for their lovers grew, Halts before the forsaken dwelling,

But that shy wanderer, Where in the twilight, too spent to

Golden Rowan, of Menalowan, roam,

Knew love was not for her.


the sea,

Hers was the love of wilding things ; To hear a squirrel chir

In the golden rowan of Menalowan Was joy enough for her.

She sleeps on the hill with the lonely sun, Where in the days that were,

The golden rowan of Menalowan So often shadowed her.

The scarlet fruit will come to fill,
The scarlet spring to stir

The golden rowan of Menalowan,
And wake no dream for her.

Make me of thy seed to-morrow,
When the sap begins to stir !
Tawny light-foot, sleepy bruin,
Bright-eyes in the orchard ruin,
Gnarl the good life goes askew in,
Whiskey-jack, or tanager,
Make me anything to-morrow,
When the sap begins to stir !
Make me even (How do I know ?)
Like my friend the gargoyle there ;
It may be the heart within him
Swells that doltish hands should pin him
Fixed forever in mid-air.
Make me even sport for swallows,
Like the soaring gargoyle there !
Give me the old clue to follow,
Through the labyrinth of night!
Clod of clay with heart of fire,
Things that burrow and aspire,
With the vanishing desire,
For the perishing delight,-
Only the old clue to follow,
Through the labyrinth of night!

Only the wind is over her grave,
For mourner and comforter ;

And “Golden Rowan, of Menalowan,” Is all we know of her.


MAKE me over, mother April,
When the sap begins to stir !
When thy flowery hand delivers
All the mountain-prisoned rivers,
And thy great heart beats and quivers
To revive the days that were,
Make me over, mother April,
When the sap begins to stir !

Make me over, mother April,
When the sap begins to stir !
Fashion me from swamp or meadow,
Garden plot or ferny shadow,
Hyacinth or humble burr !
Make me over, mother April,
When the sap begins to stir !

Take my dust and all my dreaming,
Count my heart-beats one by one,
Send them where the winters perish;
Then some golden noon recherish
And restore them in the sun,
Flower and scent and dust and dreaming,
With their heart-beats every one !

Let me hear the far, low summons,
When the silver winds return;
Rills that run and streams that stammer,
Goldenwing with his loud hammer,
Icy brooks that brawl and clamor
Where the Indian willows burn;
Let me hearken to the calling,
When the silver winds return,

Set me in the urge and tide-drift
Of the streaming hosts a-wing !
Breast of scarlet, throat of yellow,
Raucous challenge, wooings mellow -
Every migrant is my fellow,
Making northward with the spring.
Loose me in the urge and tide-drift
Of the streaming hosts a-wing !
Shrilling pipe or fluting whistle,
In the valleys come again ;
Fife of frog and call of tree-toad,
All my brothers, five or three-toed,
With their revel no more vetoed,
Making music in the rain ;
Shrilling pipe or fluting whistle,
In the valleys come again.

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So I win, to time's confusion,

He harries the ports of the Hollyhocks, The one perfect pearl of time,

And levies on poor Sweetbrier ; Joy and joy and joy forever,

He drinks the whitest wine of Phlox, Till the sap forgets to climb !

And the Rose is his desire. Make me over in the morning,

He hangs in the Willows a night and a From the rag-bag of the world !

Scraps of dream and duds of daring, He rifles the Buckwheat patches;
Home-brought stuff from far sea-faring, Then battens his store of pelf galore
Faded colors once so flaring,

Under the tautest hatches.
Shreds of banners long since furled !
Hues of ash and glints of glory,

He woos the Poppy and weds the Peach, In the rag-bag of the world !

Inveigles Daffodilly,

And then like a tramp abandons each
Let me taste the old immortal

For the gorgeous Canada Lily.
Indolence of life once more ;
Not recalling nor foreseeing,

There's not a soul in the garden world Let the great slow joys of being

But wishes the day were shorter, Well my heart through as of yore !

When Mariner B. puts out to sea Let me taste the old inmortal

With the wind in the proper quarter. Indolence of life once more !

Or, so they say! But I have my doubts ; Give me the old drink for rapture,

For the flowers are only human, The delirium to drain,

And the valor and gold of a vagrant bold All my fellows drank in plenty

Were always dear to woman.
At the Three Score Inns and Twenty
From the mountains to the main !

He dares to boast, along the coast,
Give me the old drink for rapture,

The beauty of Highland Heather, The delirium to drain !

How he and she, with night on the sea,

Lay out on the hills together.
Only make me over, April,
When the sap begins to stir !

He pilfers from every port of the wind, Make me man or make me woman,

From April to golden autumn; Make me oaf or ape or human,

But the thieving ways of his mortal days Cup of flower or cone of fir ;

Are those his mother taught him.
Make me anything but neuter
When the sap begins to stir !

His morals are mixed, but his will is fixed;
He prospers after his kind,

And follows an instinct, compass-sure,
A MORE ANCIENT MARINER The philosophers call blind.
THE swarthy bee is a buccaneer,

And that is why, when he comes to die, A burly velveted rover,

He'll have an easier sentence Who loves the booming wind in his ear Than some one I know who thinks just As he sails the seas of clover.


And then leaves room for repentance.
A waif of the goblin pirate crew,
With not a soul to deplore him,

He never could box the compass round; He steers for the open verge of blue He does n't know port from starboard ; With the filmy world before him.

But he knows the gates of the Sundown

Straits, His flimsy sails abroad on the wind

Where the choicest goods are harbored. Are shivered with fairy thunder ; On a line that sings to the light of his wings He never could see the Rule of Three, He makes for the lands of wonder.

But he knows a rule of thumb


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