#CanadianWriters
One moment, the slim cloudflakes s… With their sad sunward faces aureo… And longing lips set downward brig… To take the last sweet hand kiss o… Gone down beyond the closing west…
Oh earth, oh dewy mother, breathe… Something of all thy beauty and th… Us that are part of day, but most… Not strong like thee, but ever bur… With glooms and cares, things pale…
Once on the year’s last eve in my… Sitting in dreams, not sad, nor qu… Balancing all 'twixt wonder and de… Methought my body and all this wor… And vanished from me, as a dream,…
Mother of balms and soothings mani… Quiet-breathed night whose broodin… To whom the voices of all rest are… And those few stars whose scattere… Far off beyond the westward hills…
All day between high-curded clouds… Shone down like summer on the stea… The long, bright icicles in dwindl… Dripped from the murmuring eaves t… They fell. As if the spring had n…
The long days came and went; the r… Tore the warm grapes in many a dus… And men grew faint and thin with t… And Winter gave no sign: But all the while beyond the north…
I passed through the gates of the… The streets were strange and still… Through the doors of the open chur… The organs were moaning shrill. Through the doors and the great hi…
We in sorrow coldly witting, In the bleak world sitting, sittin… By the forest, near the mould, Heard the summer calling, calling, Through the dead leaves falling, f…
There is no break in all the wide… Nor light on any field, and the wi… And talks of death. Where cold gr… Round greyer stones, and the new-f… Heap the chill hollows of the nake…
No girdle hath weaver or goldsmith… So rich as the arms of my love can… No gems with a lovelier lustre fra… Than her eyes, when they answer me… Dear lady of love, be kind to me
The dew is gleaming in the grass, The morning hours are seven, And I am fain to watch you pass, Ye soft white clouds of heaven. Ye stray and gather, part and fold…
I love the warm bare earth and all That works and dreams thereon: I love the seasons yet to fall: I love the ages gone, The valleys with the sheeted grain…
What are these bustlers at the gat… Of now or yesterday, These playthings in the hand of F… That pass, and point no way; These clinging bubbles whose mock…
Even as I watched the daylight ho… From noon till eve, and saw the li… In long pale waves across the flas… And heard through all my dreams, w… The thin cicada singing overhead,
Out of the Northland sombre weird… A shadow falleth southward day by… Sad summers arms grow cold; his fi… His feet draw back to give the ste… It is the voice and shadow of the…