Part 2

Then we turned north. A railway train rushed by us; The blue-bloused engineer Hung from his stifling cab, Waving a careless hand. And in a moment we had lost All thought of shining porches And sleepy village streets. This was a thinner world Of smaller, leaner orchards; Taller, barer houses; Drier, keener air. Here and there grey willows, With an eerie whisper, Bent above a narrow stream That languidly slipped by. And over us the noon-day sky Turned brazen. Stark tree trunks Showed where bush fires had run, Charred columns of lost forests Dried by the sun into fantastic shapes,

This narrow stream, Unnursed by tree-held snow, Dwarfed by the fires, fifty years ago Would have raced by us foaming, Even in summer, through a world of green-- A lost green world of butterflies and fern, And soft anemones in spring; But now at every jagged, ugly turn Only a brush heap where the woods had been. The very soil is scorched-- Scorched the brown ferns Descended from the ones that long ago Were licked into a burning wind of flame. Poor, narrow little stream, Bereft of that green dream That holds the snow! ... There was a bit of rock a mile ago, The preface of the North!

III

_Bush Road_

A soft swamp road, For forty miles through bracken and through fern, Smooth as a snake, With turn on twisted turn-- Turns that meant few surprises; Yet, as it wrinkled on its way, The softly yielding earth that overlay its granite Seemed to say That once the lumber trails ran here, And once the voyageur Sang as he paddled down the foaming stream, And once the woodmen came, Great gangs of woodmen With the axe and spike, Who set up rude encampments. Then, to hoarse shouts and orders, To laughter and to oaths, To roaring fires at night and whiskey-haunted songs, The soft green forest fell. It died robustly as it lived, And had its will of singing and of strife, An ardent, powerful, various sort of life; A more heroic fate Than this of late-- A trail up to the playground of the North, A bracken-haunted, snaky road, A soft surprise to strangers, a delight.

IV

_Painted Rock_

Then the North took us, Forced us through rocky walls, Tore at our tires, Gave us no inch of earth Upon our steady climb. Yet even here, beside the cruel road, Were scraggy plots of farm, And wood-piles neatly stacked, And shacks, and gloomy faces. Then an acre of more fertile land, Pine trees and woods, And suddenly, like a blue cup held high, The lake Mazinawa ... All silence, silence, silence-- Dark colours filling the blue cup. And, like a purple stain against the sunset, The great rock of Mazinawa, Sacred to Indian tribes how long ago! A thousand years ago? Why should one care to know!

It looms up larger than I dreamed; Roadways of rock And canyons full of light; Niched balconies for pines bent all one way; Small birds in flight, Dashing against the dark Of that vast rocky flank, Whose sides of iron seams, Laid under golden lichen, Have been a place of dreams And of brute sacrifice. What if it has a power to draw us near As in the days of fear? When from the rocklands of the Georgian Bay Or through the bush roads whence we came to-day, But then on foot, soft-padding all the way, Or in the war canoes They crowded to this small blue lake of theirs And an old shrine ... What are we floating towards In this small, low canoe? A naked, ceremonial singing past Seems to reach out and whisper.

STUDY IN SHADOWS

_The Rock at Bon Echo_

I

Once in the twilight aisles of Amiens I thought I knew what shadows were, Creeping in golden dust and greying dust, And trooping down dim flights of measured air, Liquid in spacing, that those arches span.

II

But just last night, before the moon was up, Our little boat stole close against these crags That out-rear arches and reject the dark. Yet gradually the purple of the rock Melted before it; and again they came Creeping in golden dust, and greying dust, And crowding down those giant flights of stair That open slowly as eternity, To hold the feet of shadows, lost in night.

III

Then I remembered Götterdammerüng-- How before doom falls on the gorgeous host, Slowly there drifts across the empty stage A smoke-cloud, lonely as a passing soul. In very truth the gods return to you-- Great rock that blazes colour in the sun-- And, as in the Valhalla of old song, Parade before our eyes the whole day long And make a glorious end, As with you they are folded in a sleep. No cloud foretells their doom, but wings of birds A moment sweep your side--then fall away.

NORTHERN GRAVEYARDS

Stony fields and lonely roads, Meagre hamlets, very lean, And most prosperous graveyards Lying all between.

Each few miles a graveyard, With its crouching column And its urns and headstones, Very dark and solemn.

But with what an accent! Yellow, purple, red, Lie the votive offerings To this public dead.

Close beside the railway, Where the smoke drifts high, These are decked in garlands For the passerby.

Even in the winter, Breaking through the snow Immortelles beguile us, When the train runs slow.

They are strangely cheerful, All these plots of ground That have lost the loneliness Of the living. Here abound

In a comradeship increasing Those who in their hour Reaped a dreary harvest, Missed a magic flower.

Over them the smoke-wreaths, Snow, and whispering grass, And the voice of neighbours, Sighing as they pass;

While the urns of iron And the barbarous vases Chant a willing ritual To forgotten faces.

So they sleep together, And their shades may say: "Wave to us, O restless traveller! We are glad to stay."

STONY LAKE

By southern seas I have seen purple stones Throw back the shadows of the waves and hills. On the Ægean, so the stories run, Greek youths, with many a saffron-coloured sail, Rode flame-like to the rhythm of the gale.

Again, on the bright shores of this small lake, Purple of hills and pink of northern rocks. To-day I met a sail-boat in the wind And at its mast a brown Canadian boy-- He was as splendid as his mate of Troy.

TRADE

It might have been two hundred years ago, For all the difference in her way or mine, That her canoe, with paddle dipping slow, Just as the sunset ran to embers low, Stopped at my rocky door.

With fish and basketwork she plied her trade, And I, to help a little money last, Answered her barter with a coat I made Of coloured wool--oh, many seasons past! We were both satisfied!

SNAKE ISLAND

"Ages ago," my Indian says (As we are fishing in a cove Of this green island, with its trees and shacks), "Here was wild grass and many snakes. After a while they disappear, For soon the white man comes, and makes Houses like these to live in!"

So the old name is suddenly made new. Snake Island! ...

Ages ago, perhaps, the trees were elfin And tall grass towered to the skies, Until, to all those narrow, screen-like eyes, This was a dazzling fen, Perplexed with tangled fern, Peopled with glittering prey; Dense borderland to where the black pools lay Whose captives twist and turn.

Burrowing, boa-like, harlequin snakes, Your day was brilliant and flashing enough! Snakes casting skins in continuous slough, Grass snakes and ring snakes, on dragon-flies bent. Was there a charmer, with musical pipe, Lured you a moment? Some Indian charm Surely touched you with sorcery, gave you alarm, Ere the people who meant to build houses like these Came and killed you-- And killed the wild grass.

JUNIPER RING

Juniper ring on the granite rock, Deep and green and perfectly planned; Living with you I understand Circle-magic of old.

You had a sister in mystery-- Was it only an April ago That a crocus cup on a bed of snow Promised eternal things?

It will be longer, Juniper, Till earth declares you ready to break, And you fade of the havoc her brown hands make That are covered with mystic rings.

WHITE SLUMBER

Who has come to that farthest island Beyond White Gull Bay? There is a little tent among the birches Since yesterday. Those birches are the palest things Even in the morning sun! Among them the tent has suddenly blossomed, As the white flower of a night-blooming cereus, Silently, deep in some forest of sleep, Might have done. Who are they? What dreams must be theirs, Who have found such a magical camp unawares?

CRIMSON POOL

Even you, dark pool-- Even you feel death. On your soft brown surface There are deep reflections Of a fiery breath. To the waiting forest Death does not come creeping As it comes to men; It comes shouting, waving banners, Burning out its way with torches, Hanging garlands now and then. All the green walls of your silence Hung with crimson, Even you, dark pool-- Even you feel death. On your soft brown surface There are deep reflections Of a fiery breath.

MIRACLES

MIRACLES

We said: "The Universe shall kneel!" And so the dreams of long ago Have bound the winds and stars, And lashed the waves to giant bars, Till Light itself is chained. We fly on wings of steel; We beckon Mars. Almost the frightened worlds, I feel, Must in their journeys swerve and wheel Far from the Will of Earth.

Suppose the Universe should speak! And on some thundering street Quite suddenly, before our eyes A fountain, cool and sweet, A careless, laughing little thing Should dance upon the air And all the very wise of us Be held in wonder there! ... Suppose one day an angel, Through some caprice or whim, Should walk along a city way That we might talk to him; And all the men and women, And all the horses too, Should bow and fall before him, As mortals used to do! ... I wish that some quaint miracle Might happen, even to-day, Whereby the Universe should speak And men kneel down to pray.