WINTER SONG
Sing me a song of the dead world,
Of the great frost deep and still,
Of the sword of fire the wind hurled
On the iron hill.
Sing me a song of the driving snow,
Of the reeling cloud and the smoky drift,
Where the sheeted wraiths like ghosts go
Through the gloomy rift.
Sing me a song of the ringing blade,
Of the snarl and shatter the light ice makes,
Of the whoop and the swing of the snow-shoe raid
Through the cedar brakes.
Sing me a song of the apple-loft,
Of the corn and the nuts and the mounds of meal,
Of the sweeping whir of the spindle soft,
And the spinning-wheel.
Sing me a song of the open page,
Where the ruddy gleams of the firelight dance,
Where bends my love Armitage,
Reading an old romance.
Sing me a song of the still nights,
Of the large stars steady and high,
The aurora darting its phosphor lights
In the purple sky.
THE CANADIAN’S HOME-SONG
There is rain upon the window,
There is wind upon the tree;
The rain is slowly sobbing,
The wind is blowing free:
It bears my weary heart
To my own country.
I hear the white-throat calling,
Hid in the hazel ring;
Deep in the misty hollows
I hear the sparrows sing;
I see the bloodroot starting,
All silvered with the spring.
I skirt the buried reed-beds,
In the starry solitude;
My snowshoes creak and whisper,
I have my ready blood.
I hear the lynx-cub yelling
In the gaunt and shaggy wood.
I hear the wolf-tongued rapid
Howl in the rocky break,
Beyond the pines at the portage
I hear the trapper wake
His En roulant ma boulé ,
From the clear gloom of the lake.
Oh! take me back to the homestead,
To the great rooms warm and low,
Where the frost creeps on the casement,
When the year comes in with snow.
Give me, give me the old folk
Of the dear long ago.
Oh, land of the dusky balsam,
And the darling maple-tree,
Where the cedar buds and berries,
And the pine grows strong and free!
My heart is weary and weary
For my own country.
MADRIGAL
Snow-drops now begin in snows,
Crocuses to flush,
Gentle scilla buds and blows
Nurtured in the slush;
All about, like tinkling bells,
Falls the ice a-melting;
Ring, dilly dilly,—Sing, dilly dilly,—
Spring is here,
And the wolf is out of his den, O;
With a ren, O; and a fen, O;
And a den, den, den, O;
Sing, dilly dilly.
Slender moon is floating down
Through a vat of wine,
Bells knoll from the drowsy town,
Din—din—dine;
All about the red robins
Whistle in the dusk;
Ring, dilly dilly,—Sing, dilly dilly,—
Spring is here,
And the lambs are safe in their pen, O;
With a ren, O; and a fen, O;
And a den, den, den, O;
Sing, dilly dilly.
Comrade virgins clad in green
Quaff the nimble air;
Each one, if her mate’s unseen,
Is the fairest fair;
Bran is hidden in the hedge
Breathing on his reeds;
Ring, dilly dilly,—Sing, dilly dilly,—
Spring is here,
And maidens beware of the men, O;
With a ren, O; and a fen, O;
And a den, den, den, O;
Sing, dilly dilly.
WORDS AFTER MUSIC
Where go all the melodies fair,
They that flow and fade in air?
Was their beauty all foredone?
(Ah, no—no!)
Pulse and cadence truth did tell,
Vowed to music’s magic spell,
Passionate and ineffable.
Where do all the roses go,
They that die before the snow?
Was their beauty all forsworn?
(Ah, no—no!)
Flush and odor vowed aright,
When they promised rare delight,
Perennial and exquisite.
Fragile flowers and melodies
Claim a dual paradise,
Beauty is not feof to death;
(Ah, no—no!)
Beauty lives in essence free,
In the inner heart we see
Beauty’s immortality.