Part 2

From her turret she shall see Vision of a cloudy place, Like a group of opal flowers On the verge of space, Or a town, or crown of towers.

From her garden she shall hear Fall the cones between the pines; She shall seem to hear the sea, Or behind the vines Some small noise, a voice may be.

But no thing shall habit there, There no human foot shall fall, No sweet word the silence stir, Naught her name shall call, Nothing come to comfort her.

But about the middle night, When the dusk is loathéd most, Ancient thoughts and words long said, Like an alien host, There shall come unsummonéd.

With her forehead on her wrist She shall lean against the wall And see all the dream go by; In the interval Time shall turn Eternity.

But the agony shall pass-- Fainting with unuttered prayer, She shall see the world’s outlines And the weary glare And the bare unvaried pines.

IN THE HOUSE OF DREAMS

I

The lady Lillian knelt upon the sward, Between the arbour and the almond leaves; Beyond, the barley gathered into sheaves; A blade of gladiolus, like a sword, Flamed fierce against the gold; and down toward The limpid west, a pallid poplar wove A spell of shadow; through the meadow drove A deep unbroken brook without a ford.

A fountain flung and poised a golden ball; On the soft grass a frosted serpent lay, With oval spots of opal over all; Upon the basin’s edge within the spray, Lulled by some craft of laughter in the fall, An ancient crow dreamed hours and hours away.

II

The lady watched the serpent and the crow For days, then came a little naked lad, And smote the serpent with a spear he had; Then stooped and caught the coil, and straining slow, Took the lithe weight upon his shoulder, so, And tugged, but could not move the ponderous thing, Then flushing red with rage, his spear did fling, And cut the gladiolus at one blow.

Then back he swung his flaming weapon high, And smote the snake and called a magic name; Then the whole garden vanished utterly, And through a mist the lightning went and came, And flooded all the caverns of the sky, A rosy gulf of unimprisoned flame.

THE RIVER TOWN

There’s a town where shadows run In the sparkle and the blue, By the river and the sun Swept and flooded thro’ and thro’.

There the sailor trolls a song, There the sea-gull dips her wing, There the wind is clear and strong, There the waters break and swing.

But at night with leaden sweep Come the clouds along the flood, Lifting in the vaulted deep Pinions of a giant brood.

Charging by the slip, the whole River rushes black and sheer, There the great fish heave and roll In the gloom beyond the pier.

All the lonely hollow town Towers above the windy quay, And the ancient tide goes down With its secret to the sea.

OFF THE ISLE AUX COUDRES

The moon, Capella, and the Pleiades Silver the river’s grey uncertain floor; Only a heron haunts the grassy shore; A fox barks sharply in the cedar trees; Then comes the lift and lull of plangent seas, Swaying the light marish grasses more and more Until they float, and the slow tide brims o’er, And then a rivulet runs along the breeze.

O night! thou art so beautiful, so strange, so sad; I feel that sense of scope and ancientness, Of all the mighty empires thou hast had Dreaming of power beneath thy palace dome, Of how thou art untouched by their distress, Supreme above this dreaming land, my home.

AT LES EBOULEMENTS

TO M. E. S.

The bay is set with ashy sails, With purple shades that fade and flee, And curling by in silver wales, The tide is straining from the sea.

The grassy points are slowly drowned, The water laps and over-rolls, The wicker pêche; with shallow sound A light wave labours on the shoals.

The crows are feeding in the foam, They rise in crowds tumultuously, ‘Come home,’ they cry, ‘come home, come home, And leave the marshes to the sea.’

ABOVE ST. IRÉNÉE

I rested on the breezy height, In cooler shade and clearer air, Beneath a maple tree; Below, the mighty river took Its sparkling shade and sheeny light Down to the sombre sea, And clustered by the leaping brook, The roofs of white St. Irénée.

The sapphire hills on either hand Broke down upon the silver tide, The river ran in streams, In streams of mingled azure-grey, With here a broken purple band, And whorls of drab, and beams Of shattered silver light astray, Where far away the south shore gleams.

I walked a mile along the height Between the flowers upon the road, Asters and golden-rod; And in the gardens pinks and stocks, And gaudy poppies shaking light, And daisies blooming near the sod, And lowly pansies set in flocks, With purple monkshood overawed.

And there I saw a little child Between the tossing golden-rod, Coming along to me; She was a tender little thing, So fragile-sweet, so Mary-mild, I thought her name Marie; No other name methought could cling To any one so fair as she.

And when we came at last to meet, I spoke a simple word to her, ‘Where are you going, Marie?’ She answered and she did not smile,

But oh! her voice,--her voice so sweet, ‘Down to St. Irénée,’ And so passed on to walk her mile, And left the lonely road to me.

And as the night came on apace, With stars above the darkened hills, I heard perpetually, Chiming along the falling hours, On the deep dusk that mellow phrase, ‘Down to St. Irénée:’ It seemed as if the stars and flowers Should all go there with me.

WRITTEN IN A COPY OF ARCHIBALD LAMPMAN’S POEMS

When April moved in maiden guise Hiding her sweet inviolate eyes, You saw about the hazel roots, Beyond the ruddy osier shoots, The violets rise.

At even, in the lower woods, Amid the cedarn solitudes, You heard afar amid the hush The argent utterance of the thrush In slower interludes.

When bees above in arboured rooms Were busy in the basswood blooms, You drowsed within the sombre drone, Dreaming, and deemed yourself alone, Harboured in glooms.

The singing of the sentient bees Brought wisdom for perplexities; They taught you all the murmured lore Of seas around an ancient shore, Of streams and trees.

You saw the web of life unrolled, Fold and inweave, weave and unfold, Crimson and azure strand on strand, From some great gulf in vision-land, Deep and untold.

And as the soft clouds opal-gray Against the confines of the day Seem lighter for the depth of skies, So, lighter for your saddened eyes, Your fair thoughts stray.

I pluck a bunch before the spring, Of field-flowers reflowering, Upon a fell that fancy weaves, A memory lingers in their leaves Of songs you sing.

You must have rested here sometime, When thought was high and words in chime, Your seed thoughts left for sun and showers Have blossomed into pleasant flowers, Instead of rhyme.

And so I bring them back to you, These pensile buds of tender hue, Of crimson, pink and purple sheen, Of yellow deep, and delicate green, Of white and blue.

OFF RIVIÈRE DU LOUP

O ship incoming from the sea With all your cloudy tower of sail, Dashing the water to the lee, And leaning grandly to the gale;

The sunset pageant in the west Has filled your canvas curves with rose, And jewelled every toppling crest That crashes into silver snows!

You know the joy of coming home, After long leagues to France or Spain; You feel the clear Canadian foam And the gulf water heave again.

Between these sombre purple hills That cool the sunset’s molten bars, You will go on as the wind wills, Beneath the river’s roof of stars.

You will toss onward toward the lights That spangle over the lonely pier, By hamlets glimmering on the heights, By level islands black and clear.

You will go on beyond the tide, Through brimming plains of olive sedge, Through paler shallows light and wide, The rapids piled along the ledge.

At evening off some reedy bay You will swing slowly on your chain, And catch the scent of dewy hay, Soft blowing from the pleasant plain.

AT THE CEDARS

TO W. W. C.

You had two girls--Baptiste-- One is Virginie-- Hold hard--Baptiste! Listen to me.

The whole drive was jammed In that bend at the Cedars, The rapids were dammed With the logs tight rammed And crammed; you might know The Devil had clinched them below.

We worked three days--not a budge, ‘She’s as tight as a wedge, on the ledge,’ Says our foreman; ‘Mon Dieu! boys, look here, We must get this thing clear.’

He cursed at the men And we went for it then; With our cant-dogs arow, We just gave he-yo-ho; When she gave a big shove From above.

The gang yelled and tore For the shore, The logs gave a grind Like a wolf’s jaws behind, And as quick as a flash, With a shove and a crash, They were down in a mash, But I and ten more, All but Isaac Dufour, Were ashore.

He leaped on a log in the front of the rush, And shot out from the bind While the jam roared behind; As he floated along He balanced his pole And tossed us a song. But just as we cheered, Up darted a log from the bottom, Leaped thirty feet square and fair, And came down on his own.

He went up like a block With the shock, And when he was there In the air, Kissed his hand To the land; When he dropped My heart stopped, For the first logs had caught him And crushed him; When he rose in his place There was blood on his face.

There were some girls, Baptiste, Picking berries on the hillside, Where the river curls, Baptiste, You know--on the still side One was down by the water, She saw Isaac Fall back.

She did not scream, Baptiste, She launched her canoe; It did seem, Baptiste, That she wanted to die too, For before you could think The birch cracked like a shell In that rush of hell, And I saw them both sink--

Baptiste!-- He had two girls, One is Virginie, What God calls the other Is not known to me.

THE END OF THE DAY

I hear the bells at eventide Peal slowly one by one, Near and far off they break and glide, Across the stream float faintly beautiful The antiphonal bells of Hull; The day is done, done, done, The day is done.

The dew has gathered in the flowers, Lake tears from some unconscious deep: The swallows whirl around the towers, The light runs out beyond the long cloud bars, And leaves the single stars; ’Tis time for sleep, sleep, sleep, ’Tis time for sleep.

The hermit thrush begins again,-- Timorous eremite-- That song of risen tears and pain, As if the one he loved was far away: ‘Alas! another day--’ ‘And now Good Night, Good Night,’ ‘Good Night.’

THE REED-PLAYER

TO B. C.

By a dim shore where water darkening Took the last light of spring, I went beyond the tumult, hearkening For some diviner thing.

Where the bats flew from the black elms like leaves, Over the ebon pool Brooded the bittern’s cry, as one that grieves Lands ancient, bountiful.

I saw the fireflies shine below the wood, Above the shallows dank, As Uriel from some great altitude, The planets rank on rank.

And now unseen along the shrouded mead One went under the hill; He blew a cadence on his mellow reed, That trembled and was still.

It seemed as if a line of amber fire Had shot the gathered dusk, As if had blown a wind from ancient Tyre Laden with myrrh and musk.

He gave his luring note amid the fern; Its enigmatic fall Haunted the hollow dusk with golden turn And argent interval.

I could not know the message that he bore, The springs of life from me Hidden; his incommunicable lore As much a mystery.

And as I followed far the magic player He passed the maple wood, And when I passed the stars had risen there, And there was solitude.

A FLOCK OF SHEEP

TO C. G. D. R.

Over the field the bright air clings and tingles, In the gold sunset while the red wind swoops; Upon the nibbled knolls and from the dingles, The sheep are gathering in frightened groups.

From the wide field the laggards bleat and follow, A drover hurls his cry and hooting laugh; And one young swain, too glad to whoop or hollo, Is singing wildly as he whirls his staff.

Now crowding into little groups and eddies They swirl about and charge and try to pass; The sheep-dog yelps and heads them off and steadies And rounds and moulds them in a seething mass.

They stand a moment with their heads uplifted Till the wise dog barks loudly on the flank, They all at once roll over and are drifted Down the small hill toward the river bank.

Covered with rusty marks and purple blotches Around the fallen bars they flow and leap; The wary dog stands by and keenly watches As if he knew the name of every sheep.

Now down the road the nimble sound decreases, The drovers cry, the dog delays and whines, And now with twinkling feet and glimmering fleeces They round and vanish past the dusky pines.

The drove is gone, the ruddy wind grows colder, The singing youth puts up the heavy bars, Beyond the pines he sees the crimson smoulder, And catches in his eyes the early stars.

A PORTRAIT

All her hair is softly set, Like a misty coronet, Massing darkly on her brow, Like the pines above the snow; And her eyebrows lightly drawn, Slender clouds above the dawn, Or like ferns above her eyes, Ferns and pools in Paradise.

Her sweet mouth is like a flower, Like a poppy full of power, Shaken light and crimson stain, Pressed together by the rain, Glowing liquid in the sun, When the rain is done.

When she moves, her motionings Seem to shadow hidden wings; So the cuckoo going to light Takes a little further flight, Fluttering onward, poised there, Half in grass and half in air.

When she speaks, her girlish voice Makes a very pleasant noise, Like a brook that hums along Under leaves an undersong: When she sings, her voice is clear, Like the waters swerving sheer, In the sunlight magical, Down a ringing fall.

Here her spirit came to dwell From the passionate Israfel; One of those great songs of his Rounded to a soul like this; And when she seems so strange at even, He must be singing in the heaven; When she wears that charméd smile, Listening, listening all the while, She is stirred with kindred things, Starry fire and sweeping wings, And the seraph’s sobbing strings.

AT THE LATTICE

Good-night, Marie, I kiss thine eyes, A tender touch on either lid; They cover, as a cloud, the skies Where like a star your soul lies hid.

My love is like a fire that flows, This touch will leave a tiny scar, I’ll claim you by it for my rose, My rose, my own, where’er you are.

And when you bind your hair, and when You lie within your silken nest, This kiss will visit you again, You will not rest, my love, you will not rest.

THE FIRST SNOW

I

The field pools gathered into frosted lace; An icy glitter lined the iron ruts, And bound the circle of the musk-rat huts; A junco flashed about a sunny space Where rose stems made a golden amber grace; Between the dusky alders’ woven ranks, A stream thought yet about his summer banks, And made an August music in the place.

Along the horizon’s faded shrunken lines, Veiling the gloomy borders of the night, Hung the great snow clouds washed with pallid gold; And stealing from his covert in the pines, The wind, encouraged to a stinging flight, Dropped in the hollow conquered by the cold.

II

Then a light cloud rose up for hardihood, Trailing a veil of snow that whirled and broke, Blown softly like a shroud of steam or smoke, Sallied across a knoll where maples stood, Charged over broken country for a rood, Then seeing the night withdrew his force and fled, Leaving the ground with snow-flakes thinly spread, And traces of the skirmish in the wood.

The stars sprang out and flashed serenely near, The solid frost came down with might and main, It set the rivers under bolt and bar; Bang! went the starting eaves beneath the strain, And e’er Orion saw the morning-star The winter was the master of the year.

IN NOVEMBER

TO J. A. R.

The ruddy sunset lies Banked along the west; In flocks with sweep and rise The birds are going to rest.

The air clings and cools, And the reeds look cold, Standing above the pools, Like rods of beaten gold.

The flaunting golden-rod Has lost her worldly mood, She’s given herself to God, And taken a nun’s hood.

The wild and wanton horde, That kept the summer revel, Have taken the serge and cord, And given the slip to the Devil.

The winter’s loose somewhere, Gathering snow for a fight; From the feel of the air I think it will freeze to-night.

THE SLEEPER

Touched with some divine repose, Isabelle has fallen asleep, Like the perfume from the rose In and out her breathings creep.

Dewy are her rosy palms, In her cheek the flushes flit, And a dream her spirit calms With the pleasant thought of it.

All the rounded heavens show Like the concave of a pearl, Stars amid the opal glow Little fronds of flame unfurl.

Then upfloats a planet strange, Not the moon that mortals know, With a magic mountain range, Cones and craters white as snow;

Something different yet the same-- Rain by rainbows glorified, Roses lit with lambent flame-- ’Tis the maid moon’s other side.

When the sleeper floats from sleep, She will smile the vision o’er, See the veinéd valleys deep, No one ever saw before.

Yet the moon is not betrayed, (Ah! the subtle Isabelle!) She’s a maiden, and a maid Maiden secrets will not tell.

A NIGHT IN JUNE

The world is heated seven times, The sky is close above the lawn, An oven when the coals are drawn.

There is no stir of air at all, Only at times an inward breeze Turns back a pale leaf in the trees.

Here the syringa’s rich perfume Covers the tulip’s red retreat, A burning pool of scent and heat.

The pallid lightning wavers dim Between the trees, then deep and dense The darkness settles more intense.

A hawk lies panting in the grass, Or plunges upward through the air, The lightning shows him whirling there.

A bird calls madly from the eaves. Then stops, the silence all at once Disturbed, falls dead again and stuns.

A redder lightning flits about, But in the north a storm is rolled That splits the gloom with vivid gold;

Dead silence, then a little sound, The distance chokes the thunder down, It shudders faintly in the town.

A fountain plashing in the dark Keeps up a mimic dropping strain; Ah! God, if it were really rain!

MEMORY

I see a schooner in the bay Cutting the current into foam; One day she flies and then one day Comes like a swallow veering home.

I hear a water miles away Go sobbing down the wooded glen; One day it lulls and then one day Comes sobbing on the wind again.

Remembrance goes but will not stay; That cry of unpermitted pain One day departs and then one day Comes sobbing to my heart again.

YOUTH AND TIME

Move not so lightly, Time, away, Grant us a breathing-space of tender ruth; Deal not so harshly with the flying day, Leave us the charm of spring, the touch of youth.

Leave us the lilacs wet with dew, Leave us the balsams odorous with rain, Leave us of frail hepaticas a few, Let the red osier sprout for us again.

Leave us the hazel thickets set Along the hills, leave us a month that yields The fragile bloodroot and the violet, Leave us the sorrage shimmering on the fields.

You offer us largess of power, You offer fame, we ask not these in sooth, These comfort age upon his failing hour, But oh, the charm of spring, the touch of youth!

A MEMORY OF THE ‘INFERNO’

An hour before the dawn I dreamed of you; Your spirit made a smile upon your face, As fleeting as the visionary grace That music lends to words; and when it flew, I thought of how the maid Francesca grew, So lovely at Ravenna, until Time Ripened the fruit of her immortal crime. As pure as light my vision took this hue To paint our sorrow: so your lips made moan; ‘Upon that day we read no more therein’: I wept, such tears Paolo might have known; And all the love, the immemorial pain, Swept down upon me as I felt begin, That furious circle rage and reel again.

LA BELLE FERONIÈRE

I never trod where Leonardo was, Then why art thou within this house of dreams, Strange Lady? From thy face a memory streams, Of things, forgotten now, that came to pass; The flower of Milan floated in thy glass: Thy dreaming smile; thy subtle loveliness! Ah! laughter airier far than ours, I guess, Lighted thy brow, fleeter than fire in grass.

Yet, there is something fateful in thy face: Say, when the master caught it, didst thou know, Almost thy name would perish with thy grace, Thine artifices melt away like snow, And all the power within this painted space, Be his alone to hold and haunt us so?

A NOVEMBER DAY

There are no clouds above the world, But just a round of limpid grey, Barred here with nacreous lines unfurled, That seem to crown the autumnal day, With rings of silver chased and pearled.

The moistened leaves along the ground, Lie heavy in an aureate floor; The air is lingering in a swound; Afar from some enchanted shore, Silence has blown instead of sound.

The trees all flushed with tender pink Are floating in the liquid air, Each twig appears a shadowy link, To keep the branches mooréd there, Lest all might drift or sway and sink.

This world might be a valley low, In some lost ocean grey and old, Where sea-plants film the silver flow, Where waters swing above the gold Of galleons sunken long ago.

OTTAWA