#Canadians
WITHIN my stone-walled garden (I see her standing now, Uplifted in the twilight, With glory on her brow!) I love to walk at evening
Over the hills of April With soft winds hand in hand, Impassionate and dreamy-eyed, Spring leads her saraband. Her garments float and gather
OH, well the world is dreaming Under the April moon, Her soul in love with beauty, Her senses all a-swoon! Pure hangs the silver crescent
NOW is the time of year When all the flutes begin,— The redwing bold and clear, The rainbird far and thin. In all the waking lands
MORTAL, mortal, have you seen In the scented summer night, Great Astarte, clad in green With a veil of mystic light, Passing on her silent way,
IN the day of battle, In the night of dread, Let one hymn be lifted, Let one prayer be said. Not for pride of conquest,
When April winds arrive And the soft rains are here, Some morning by the roadside These gipsy folk appear. We never see their coming,
SHINING, shining children Of the summer rain, Racing down the valley, Sweeping o’er the plain! Rushing through the forest,
THESE things I remember Of New England June, Like a vivid day-dream In the azure noon, While one haunting figure
For The Brthday Of James Whitco… LOCKERBIE STREET is a littl… Just one block long; But the days go there with a magic… The whole year long.
NOW come the rosy dogwoods, The golden tulip-tree, And the scarlet yellow maple, To make a day for me. The ash-trees on the ridges,
OVER the rim of a lacquered bowl… Where a cold blue water-color stan… I see the wintry breakers roll And heave their froth up the freez… Here in immunity safe and dull,
FOR a name unknown, Whose fame unblown Sleeps in the hills For ever and aye; For her who hears
HERE we came when love was young… Now that love is old, Shall we leave the floor unswept And the hearth acold? Here the hill-wind in the dusk,
THERE is a world of being We range from pole to pole, Through seasons of the spirit And weather of the soul. It has its new-born Aprils,