#CanadianWriters
What do poets want with gold, Cringing slaves and cushioned ease… Are not crusts and garments old Better for their souls than these? Gold is but the juggling rod
Oh night and sleep, Ye are so soft and deep, I am so weary, come ye soon to me. Oh hours that creep, With so much time to weep,
The earth is the cup of the sun, That he filleth at morning with wi… With the warm, strong wine of his… From the vintage of gold and of li… Fills it, and makes it divine.
’Tis a land where no hurricane fal… But the infinite azure regards Its waters for ever, its walls Of granite, its limitless swards; Where the fens to their innermost…
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…
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…
A little while, a year agone, I knew her for a romping child, A dimple and a glance that shone With idle mischief when she smiled… To-day she passed me in the press,
There is singing of birds in the d… In the heart of the listening soli… Pewees, and thrushes, and sparrows… And all the notes of their throats… The thrush from the innermost ash…
Now hath the summer reached her go… And, lost amid her corn-fields, br… Scarcely perceives from her divine… How near, how swift, the inevitabl… Still, still, she smiles, though f…
Scarcely a breath about the rocky… Moved, but the growing tide from v… Heaving salt fragrance on the midn… Climbed with a murmurous and fitfu… A hoary mist rose up and slowly sh…
Oh city, whom grey stormy hands ha… With restless drift, scarce broken… Out of the dark thy windows dim an… Gleam red across the storm. Sound… Save evermore the fierce wind’s sw…
The leafless forests slowly yield To the thick-driving snow. A litt… And night shall darken down. In s… The woodmen’s carts go by me homew… Past the thin fading stubbles, hal…
Mother, to whose valiant will Battling long ago, What the heaping years fulfil, Light and song, I owe; Send my little book afield,
Hear me, Brother, gently met; Just a little, turn, not yet, Thou shalt laugh, and soon forget: Now the midnight draweth near. I have little more to tell;
To-day the world is wide and fair With sunny fields of lucid air, And waters dancing everywhere; The snow is almost gone; The noon is builded high with ligh…