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What days await this woman, whose strange feet Breathe spells, whose presence makes men dream like wine, Tall, free and slender as the forest pine, Whose form is moulded music, through whose sweet Frank eyes I feel the very heart's least beat, Keen, passionate, full of dreams and fire: How in the end, and to what man's desire Shall all this yield, whose lips shall these lips meet?

One thing I know: if he be great and pure, This love, this fire, this beauty shall endure; Triumph and hope shall lead him by the palm: But if not this, some differing thing he be, That dream shall break in terror; he shall see The whirlwind ripen, where he sowed the calm.


The hills and leafless forests slowly yield To the thick-driving snow. A little while And night shall darken down. In shouting file The woodmen's carts go by me homeward-wheeled, Past the thin fading stubbles, half concealed, Now golden-grey, sowed softly through with snow, Where the last ploughman follows still his row, Turning black furrows through the whitening field.

Far off the village lamps begin to gleam, Fast drives the snow, and no man comes this way; The hills grow wintery white, and bleak winds moan About the naked uplands. I alone Am neither sad, nor shelterless, nor grey, Wrapped round with thought, content to watch and dream.


Beyond the dusky corn-fields, toward the west, Dotted with farms, beyond the shallow stream, Through drifts of elm with quiet peep and gleam, Curved white and slender as a lady's wrist, Faint and far off out of the autumn mist, Even as a pointed jewel softly set In clouds of colour warmer, deeper yet, Crimson and gold and rose and amethyst, Toward dayset, where the journeying sun grown old Hangs lowly westward darker now than gold, With the soft sun-touch of the yellowing hours Made lovelier, I see with dreaming eyes, Even as a dream out of a dream, arise The bell-tongued city with its glorious towers.


Mother of balms and soothings manifold, Quiet-breathed night whose brooding hours are seven, To whom the voices of all rest are given, And those few stars whose scattered names are told, Far off beyond the westward hills outrolled, Darker than thou, more still, more dreamy even, The golden moon leans in the dusky heaven, And under her one star--a point of gold:

And all go slowly lingering toward the west, As we go down forgetfully to our rest, Weary of daytime, tired of noise and light: Ah, it was time that thou should'st come; for we Were sore athirst, and had great need of thee, Thou sweet physician, balmy-bosomed night.


Once ye were happy, once by many a shore, Wherever Glooscap's gentle feet might stray, Lulled by his presence like a dream, ye lay Floating at rest; but that was long of yore.

He was too good for earthly men; he bore Their bitter deeds for many a patient day, And then at last he took his unseen way.

He was your friend, and ye might rest no more:

And now, though many hundred altering years Have passed, among the desolate northern meres Still must ye search and wander querulously, Crying for Glooscap, still bemoan the light With wierd entreaties, and in agony With awful laughter pierce the lonely night.


Over the dripping roofs and sunk snow-barrows The bells are ringing loud and strangely near, The shout of children dins upon mine ear Shrilly, and like a flight of silvery arrows Showers the sweet gossip of the British sparrows, Gathered in noisy knots of one or two, To joke and chatter just as mortals do Over the days long tale of joys and sorrows;

Talk before bed-time of bold deeds together Of thefts and fights, of hard-times and the weather, Till sleep disarm them, to each little brain Bringing tucked wings and many a blissful dream, Visions of wind and sun, of field and stream, And busy barn-yards with their scattered grain.


How still it is here in the woods. The trees Stand motionless, as if they did not dare To stir, lest it should break the spell. The air Hangs quiet as spaces in a marble frieze.

Even this little brook, that runs at ease, Whispering and gurgling in its knotted bed, Seems but to deepen with its curling thread Of sound the shadowy sun-pierced silences.

Sometimes a hawk screams or a woodpecker Startles the stillness from its fixed mood With his loud careless tap. Sometimes I hear The dreamy white-throat from some far off tree Pipe slowly on the listening solitude His five pure notes succeeding pensively.


The thoughts of all the maples who shall name, When the sad landscape turns to cold and grey?

Yet some for very ruth and sheer dismay, Hearing the northwind pipe the winter's name, Have fired the hills with beaconing clouds of flame; And some with softer woe that day by day, So sweet and brief, should go the westward way, Have yearned upon the sunset with such shame,

That all their cheeks have turned to tremulous rose; Others for wrath have turned a rusty red, And some that knew not either grief or dread, Ere the old year should find its iron close, Have gathered down the sun's last smiles acold, Deep, deep, into their luminous hearts of gold.


"Grotesque!" we said, the moment we espied him, For there he stood, supreme in his conceit, With short ears close together and queer feet Planted irregularly: first we tried him With jokes, but they were lost; we then defied him With bantering questions and loose criticism: He did not like, I'm sure, our catechism, But whisked and snuffed a little as we eyed him.

Then flung we balls, and out and clear away, Up the white slope, across the crusted snow, To where a broken fence stands in the way, Against the sky-line, a mere row of pegs, Quicker than thought we saw him flash and go, A straight mad scuttling of four crooked legs.

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