#CanadianWriters
‘Grotesque!’ we said, the moment w… For there he stood, supreme in his… With short ears close together and… Planted irregularly: first we trie… With jokes, but they were lost; we…
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…
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…
A single dreary elm, that stands b… The sombre forest and the wan-lit… Halves with its slim gray stem and… The shadowed point. Beyond it wit… Bold brows of pine-topped granite…
Harsh thoughts, blind angers, and… That keep this restless world at s… Mean passions that, like choking s… Perplex the stream of life, Pride and hot envy and cold greed,
By a void and soundless river On the outer edge of space, Where the body comes not ever, But the absent dream hath place, Stands a city, tall and quiet,
Grief was my master yesternight; To-morrow I may grieve again; But now along the windy plain The clouds have taken flight. The sowers in the furrows go;
In days, when the fruit of men’s l… And hearts were weary and nigh to… A sweet grave man with a beautiful… Came to us once in the fields and… He told us of Roma, the marvellou…
As a weed beneath the ocean, As a pool beneath a tree Answers with each breath or motion An imperious mastery; So my spirit swift with passion
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;
Why weep ye in your innocent toil… Sweet little hands, why halt and t… Full many a wrong note falls, but… Each note to me is like a golden g… Each broken cadence like a mournin…
Mad with love and laden With immortal pain, Pan pursued a maiden— Pan, the god—in vain. For when Pan had nearly
The wind-swayed daisies, that on e… Throng the wide fields in whisperi… Serene and gently smiling like the… Of tender children long beatified, The delicate thought-wrapped butte…
All day, all day, round the clacki… The weaver’s fingers fly: Gray dreams like frozen mists are… In the hush of the weaver’s eye; A voice from the dusk is calling y…
From this windy bridge at rest, In some former curious hour, We have watched the city’s hue, All along the orange west, Cupola and pointed tower,