#CanadianWriters
THE sleeping tarn is dark Below the wooded hill. Save for its homing sounds, The twilit world grows still. And I am left to muse
O MOON, Mr. Moon, When you comin’ down? Down on the hilltop, Down in the glen, Out in the clearin’,
ONCE more in misted April The world is growing green. Along the winding river The plumey willows lean. Beyond the sweeping meadows
LO, now, the journeying sun, Another day’s march done, Kindles his campfire at the edge o… And in the twilight pale Above his crimson trail,
THE tall carnations crown the gar… Bowed on their stalks. Said Jock-a-dreams to John-a-nods… ‘What are the odds That we shall wake up here within…
BROWNING, old fellow, Your leaves grow yellow, Beginning to mellow As seasons pass. Your cover is wrinkled,
Over the wintry threshold Who comes with joy today, So frail, yet so enduring, To triumph o’er dismay? Ah, quick her tears are springing,
The sun goes down, and over all These barren reaches by the tide Such unelusive glories fall, I almost dream they yet will bide Until the coming of the tide.
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,
THE fireflies across the dusk Are flashing signals through the g… Courageous messengers of light That dare immensities of doom. About the seeding meadow-grass,
When the dawn winds whisper To the standing corn, And the rose of morning From the dark is born, All my shadowy garden
LET me have a scarlet maple For the grave-tree at my head, With the quiet sun behind it, In the years when I am dead. Let me have it for a signal,
THERE, close the door! I shall not need these lodgings an… Now that I go, dismantled wall an… Reproach me and deplore. ‘How well,’ they say,
Soul, what art thou in the tribes… LORD, said a flying fish, Below the foundations of storm We feel the primal wish Of the earth take form.
ON the world’s far edges Faint and blue, Where the rocky ledges Stand in view, Fades the rosy tender