Among the wild rice in the still lagoon, In monotone the lizard shrills his tune.
The wild goose, homing, seeks a sheltering, Where rushes grow, and oozing lichens cling.
Late cranes with heavy wing, and lazy flight, Sail up the silence with the nearing night.
And like a spirit, swathed in some soft veil, Steals twilight and its shadows o'er the swale.
Hushed lie the sedges, and the vapours creep, Thick, grey and humid, while the marshes sleep.
JOE
AN ETCHING
A meadow brown; across the yonder edge A zigzag fence is ambling; here a wedge Of underbush has cleft its course in twain, Till where beyond it staggers up again; The long, grey rails stretch in a broken line Their ragged length of rough, split forest pine, And in their zigzag tottering have reeled In drunken efforts to enclose the field, Which carries on its breast, September born, A patch of rustling, yellow, Indian corn.
Beyond its shrivelled tassels, perched upon The topmost rail, sits Joe, the settler's son, A little semi-savage boy of nine.
Now dozing in the warmth of Nature's wine, His face the sun has tampered with, and wrought, By heated kisses, mischief, and has brought Some vagrant freckles, while from here and there A few wild locks of vagabond brown hair Escape the old straw hat the sun looks through, And blinks to meet his Irish eyes of blue.
Barefooted, innocent of coat or vest, His grey checked shirt unbuttoned at his chest, Both hardy hands within their usual nest-- His breeches pockets--so, he waits to rest His little fingers, somewhat tired and worn, That all day long were husking Indian corn.
His drowsy lids snap at some trivial sound, With lazy yawns he slips towards the ground, Then with an idle whistle lifts his load And shambles home along the country road That stretches on, fringed out with stumps and weeds, And finally unto the backwoods leads, Where forests wait with giant trunk and bough The axe of pioneer, the settler's plough.
SHADOW RIVER
MUSKOKA
A stream of tender gladness, Of filmy sun, and opal tinted skies; Of warm midsummer air that lightly lies In mystic rings, Where softly swings The music of a thousand wings That almost tones to sadness.
Midway 'twixt earth and heaven, A bubble in the pearly air, I seem To float upon the sapphire floor, a dream Of clouds of snow, Above, below, Drift with my drifting, dim and slow, As twilight drifts to even.
The little fern-leaf, bending Upon the brink, its green reflection greets, And kisses soft the shadow that it meets With touch so fine, The border line The keenest vision can't define; So perfect is the blending.
The far, fir trees that cover The brownish hills with needles green and gold, The arching elms o'erhead, vinegrown and old, Repictured are Beneath me far, Where not a ripple moves to mar Shades underneath, or over.
Mine is the undertone; The beauty, strength, and power of the land Will never stir or bend at my command; But all the shade Is marred or made, If I but dip my paddle blade; And it is mine alone.
O! pathless world of seeming!
O! pathless life of mine whose deep ideal Is more my own than ever was the real.
For others Fame And Love's red flame, And yellow gold: I only claim The shadows and the dreaming.
RAINFALL
From out the west, where darkling storm-clouds float, The 'waking wind pipes soft its rising note.
From out the west, o'erhung with fringes grey, The wind preludes with sighs its roundelay,
Then blowing, singing, piping, laughing loud, It scurries on before the grey storm-cloud;
Across the hollow and along the hill It whips and whirls among the maples, till
With boughs upbent, and green of leaves blown wide, The silver shines upon their underside.
A gusty freshening of humid air, With showers laden, and with fragrance rare;
And now a little sprinkle, with a dash Of great cool drops that fall with sudden splash;
Then over field and hollow, grass and grain, The loud, crisp whiteness of the nearing rain.
UNDER CANVAS
IN MUSKOKA
Lichens of green and grey on every side; And green and grey the rocks beneath our feet; Above our heads the canvas stretching wide; And over all, enchantment rare and sweet.
Fair Rosseau slumbers in an atmosphere That kisses her to passionless soft dreams.
O! joy of living we have found thee here, And life lacks nothing, so complete it seems.
The velvet air, stirred by some elfin wings, Comes swinging up the waters and then stills Its voice so low that floating by it sings Like distant harps among the distant hills.
Across the lake the rugged islands lie, Fir-crowned and grim; and further in the view Some shadows seeming swung 'twixt cloud and sky, Are countless shores, a symphony of blue.
Some northern sorceress, when day is done, Hovers where cliffs uplift their gaunt grey steeps, Bewitching to vermilion Rosseau's sun, That in a liquid mass of rubies sleeps.
The scent of burning leaves, the camp-fire's blaze, The great logs cracking in the brilliant flame, The groups grotesque, on which the firelight plays, Are pictures which Muskoka twilights frame.
And Night, star-crested, wanders up the mere With opiates for idleness to quaff, And while she ministers, far off I hear The owl's uncanny cry, the wild loon's laugh.
THE BIRDS' LULLABY
I
Sing to us, cedars; the twilight is creeping With shadowy garments, the wilderness through; All day we have carolled, and now would be sleeping, So echo the anthems we warbled to you; While we swing, swing, And your branches sing, And we drowse to your dreamy whispering.
II
Sing to us, cedars; the night-wind is sighing, Is wooing, is pleading, to hear you reply; And here in your arms we are restfully lying, And longing to dream to your soft lullaby; While we swing, swing, And your branches sing, And we drowse to your dreamy whispering.