WILD GEESE
Bliss Carman (1861-1929)
To-night with snow in the November air,
Over the roof I heard that startling cry
Passing along the highway of the dark--
The Wild Geese going South. Confused commands
As of a column on the march rang out
Clamorous and sharp against the frosty air.
And with an answering tumult in my heart
I too went hurrying out into the night
Was it from some deep immemorial past
I learned those summoning signals and alarms,
And still must answer to my brothers' call?
I knew the darkling hope that bade them rise
From Northern lakes, and with courageous hearts
Adventure forth on their uncharted quest.
"I "Love Summer more than I hate Winter"
The university of Toronto website has a list of Canadian poets, some I'm sure are familiar to most readers here at e-mule:
[www.library.utoronto.ca] />
Les
I went to that site last night.
I also found this one:
[www.collectionscanada.ca] />
It is the "Poetry Archives" run by Library and Archives Canada
"I "Love Summer more than I hate Winter"
SUMMER-EVENING
Calm is the evening. Not a ripple stirs
The crystal waters of yon limpid stream,
That blushes deep beneath the last bright ray
The sun has left at parting, and which throws
A lovely radiance round. Not e'en the breeze
Ruffles a moment one pure tranquil wave,
But breathes soft whisp'ring music through the woods,
Bending the flowers on the mossy shores,
And graceful willows o'er the silent brooks,
To bathe in coolness there. Afar the hills,
Are glowing in the sunshine; while below
O'er the low valley gentle evening casts
Her veil of pensive shades. I love this hour
Of melancholy calmness, for my heart
Hath sympathy from nature. O I feel
No more my spirit's loneliness; no more
I sigh for draughts to fill the longing mind,
The bosom's emptiness. My spirit soars,
And seems to roam 'mid nature's loveliness,
And in her beauties and her stillness finds
Mysterious happiness. The gentle air,
Laden with odor from the sylvan groves,
Breathes bliss around me, and its low sweet voice
Seems the soft whisperings of joy to soothe
The weary heart; and softly peace descends,
Lulls to repose the ruffled waves of grief,
Casts to oblivion every earthly thought,
Making fair Nature's solitudes appear
Fraught with some bliss of heaven, for we feel
The presence of Jehovah! His power is seen,
His works proclaim him, and his voice is heard
In nature's harmonies.
Augusta Baldwyn
"I "Love Summer more than I hate Winter"
BIRD VOICES
Archibald Lampman (1861-1899)
The robin and the sparrow awing in silver-throated
accord;
The low soft breath of a flute, and the deep short pick
of a chord,
A golden chord and a flute, where the throat of the
oriole swells
Fieldward, and out of the blue passing of bob-o-
link bells.
"I "Love Summer more than I hate Winter"
AT SUNRISE
Carman, Bliss, (1861-1929)
Now the stars have faded
In the purple chill,
Lo, the sun is kindling
On the eastern hill.
Tree by tree the forest
Takes the golden tinge,
As the shafts of glory
Pierce the summit's fringe.
Rock by rock the ledges
Take the rosy sheen,
As the tide of splendor
Floods the dark ravine.
Like a shining angel
At my cabin door,
Shod with hope and silence,
Day is come once more.
Then, as if in sorrow
That you are not here,
All his magic beauties
Gray and disappear.
"I "Love Summer more than I hate Winter"
UNTRODDEN WAYS
Agnes Maule Machar (1837-1927)
WHERE close the curving mountains drew
To clasp the stream in their embrace,
With every outline, shade, and hue
Reflected in its placid face,
The ploughman stops his team to watch
The train, as swift it thunders by;
Some distant glimpse of life to catch,
He strains his eager, wistful eye.
His waiting horses patient stand
With wonder in their gentle eyes,
As through the tranquil mountain-land
The snorting engine onward flies.
The morning freshness is on him,
Just wakened from his balmy dreams;
The wayfarers, all soiled and dim,
Think longingly of mountain streams.
Oh for the joyous mountain air,
The long, delightful autumn day
Among the hills!--the ploughman there
Must have perpetual holiday!
And he, as all day long he guides
His steady plough with patient hand,
Thinks of the train that onward glides
Into some new, enchanted land,
Where, day by day, no plodding round
Wearies the frame and dulls the mind,
Where life thrills keen to sight and sound,
With plough and furrows left behind!
"I "Love Summer more than I hate Winter"
pretty damn good
Jean-Paul wrote: