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Title: Morning in the West: A Book of Verse Author: Katherine Hale Release date: September 8, 2020 [eBook #63153] Language: English Credits: Produced by Al Haines *** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MORNING IN THE WEST: A BOOK OF VERSE *** Produced by Al Haines MORNING IN THE WEST OTHER BOOKS BY THE AUTHOR Grey Knitting The White Comrade The New Joan Canadian Cities of Romance [Illustration: Title page] Morning in the West A BOOK OF VERSE _By_ KATHERINE HALE (Mrs. John Garvin) THE RYERSON PRESS TORONTO Copyright, Canada, 1923, by THE RYERSON PRESS TO MY MOTHER Katherine Hale Byard who means song to me CONTENTS I. Morning in the West Cun-ne-wa-bum Ballad of Jasper Road Buffalo Meat Return of the Trappers An Old Lady Spanish Pilots II. Women Enchantment She Who Paddles Down Near the Glen The Bolshevik Pavlowa Dancing Calvé in Blue Sign to Trespassers Silver Slippers A Fabulous Day Christmas Eve To Marjorie Pickthall I Who Cut Patterns Poetesses III. Going North Going North Study in Shadows Northern Graveyards Stony Lake Trade Snake Island Juniper Ring White Slumber Crimson Pool IV. Miracles Miracles MORNING IN THE WEST CUN-NE-WA-BUM _Portrait in the Royal Ontario Museum_ Cun-ne-wa-bum--"one who looks on stars"-- (Feel the singing wind from out the western hills) "The tip-end of a swan's wing is her fan, With a handle of porcupine quills." Here is the artist's name, Paul Kane; Painting in forty-seven, at Edmonton, I see. That was when prairies were untamed, And untamed this young Cree. What an incantation in her name! Magic as her dark face underneath the stars; There is sword-like wind about it wrapped, And echoes of old wars. Cun-ne-wa-bum! When turtle shells were rattling, And the drums beat for the dance In the great hall of the Factor's house till dawn, You sat without the door, Where the firelight on the floor Caught the red of beads upon your moccasins. At evening through the grassy plains the wind Came shouting down the world to meet the dawn, And with the wind the firelight rose and fell, Answered with flame his shrill barbaric yell, And died like whining fiddles at his feet. And through it all the constant sound of drums-- Did your feet move to drums? The men from near and far, Crees and Sarcees, And a Blackfoot brave or two, Made rhythm of a dance that moves like rhyme To the rush of wind, and rattles swung in time To the constant, constant, constant beat of drums. No Indian woman dances in the light; Silent they sit together out of sight. But to-night I think this artist from the East, Who had come to paint the natives hereabout, Found a splendid flare of crimson on the feast And moved near the open door, Where the firelight on the floor Caught the red of beads upon your moccasins. So it is, O Cun-ne-wa-bum, Who were wont to look on stars, That you sit for ever here, Like a wild lost note from far, From the days of ancient war And of towered stockade and guns In the Edmonton of seventy years ago. In your buckskin and your beads (Feel the sudden wind from out the western hills) The tip-end of a swan's wing for your fan With a handle of porcupine quills. BALLAD OF JASPER ROAD I know a Blackfoot Chief Whose name is Dark Plume Bill. He lived beside the Jasper Road-- And lives there still. He wears a queer checked coat And a grey bowler hat, But looks his ninety-seven years For all of that. His gaze is unconcerned As he sits in the sun, And counts the flashing motor-cars That pass, one-by-one, And trucks, like dreary monsters Of a prehistoric day, That are rushing down the road In their crazy way. "The first Red River cart," Said Dark Plume Bill to me, "Came lurching up the prairie Like a ship at sea." (Oh, the long blue road, And the stealthy pad of feet And the first patient ox-cart With its sail-like sheet!) "Then the carts came faster, And at the time of snow We camped outside the Palisade, Seventy years ago. "Arrows, guns--big Buffalo hunts, Much long fight, And fires to warm the tepees For the feasts at night. "But when they laid the steel And the long trail awoke My Indian tribe had scattered Like the wigwam smoke." His gaze was unconcerned, Yet he scanned the way he knew, As though from out its clamour He had found a vanished clew. And I thought it must be strange To sit in the sun And look upon an ancient road That you had seen begun Out of silence and mystery And crafty, ambushed death, Come alive with men, and monsters Of such an alien breath. (Oh, the long blue road And the stealthy pad of feet And the first patient ox-cart With its sail-like sheet!) BUFFALO MEAT _A Daughter-in-law Writes_ It takes a letter sixty days to go-- An Indian boy runs down the trail to-night. What shall I write to you? My mind is full of gossip of a town That you have never dreamed of. So--shall I tell you of our shacks, Huddled behind the tall stockade? Our guns, with muzzles set against the prairie? What if I write the truth! Your son is now a savage; By that much more I love him! If I should say I can stand all this tropic, summer heat And menial tasks and crowded alleyways, And fat squaws lounging in the sun, And even water out of tainted wells, And long, rough prairie rides-- All for the sake of autumn, And its short, magic days of pure content! If you could know my mind! A little British mind two years ago; To-day a sort of crowded, pagan scroll, Recording strange old customs And legends, various as the Indian tribes, And prayers and songs and dances. Songs that are old as earth itself, Dances as elemental: Skin drums and tom-toms, Rattles of turtle shell, and whirl of winds Against the amphitheatre of hills. You will remember they were playing Sheridan When we left London! I can count every lilac spray on the old drawing room chintz. I hope--I hope you have not changed it since! Let me begin again. If I should say I love this small, rough shack, For it has made me brave-- Braver, at least, than when I saw it first, And saw a sea of prairie And the dim forms of buffalo herds Darkening the far horizon! I am braver now than when the halfbreeds came Racing towards us on that first wild day, Mad messengers to frighten us to death-- Servants of trappers and the Nor'-west men-- Those halfbreeds! feathers dangling, tomahawks! That was in summer. Still the buffalo lingered, Cropping the blue-grey grasses, Plunging in the muddy wallows, Always near us. I could almost touch a shaggy flank. Two years ago to-day, in Piccadilly-- That tea-shop place the day before we sailed He said, "It may be wild enough out there, But I shall keep you safe-- Oh, I shall keep you safe!" We loitered through that first bright autumn And on the edge of winter had no meat. Who wants meat, here, must follow it--and kill. So, like a band of pilgrims, we set out-- Unguarded women are not left behind-- Walking beside our husbands all the way. Far out of sight, the Indians Search for the roaming herds. They are on splendid ponies. We settlers are the country's parasites. When Mary Scott, the factor's wife, and I, With two young squaws, were left a day in camp We learned an incantation. Another day when we were on the trail My wedding ring was taken from my hand Just as a warning, A little necessary bright horse-play, To show us who was master. Five days of march and then the broad plateau-- White plains, brown beasts, Red, flying figures of the Indian guides, Bonfires at night and sleep in soft skin bags, Warm blood of slaughter-- But-- It takes a letter sixty days to go, Even at this season, when there is no snow. Autumn has fallen on London. I can see you in the sweet old room. Please do not change a thing until I come! Fires will be lit, your velvet curtains drawn, And when you read my letter, dearest one, Pray that some great day I may have a son To mingle past with present. For now each treacherous hour seems all of life; I am as much a hunter as a wife, To whom the summer is a breathing space, Who waits for autumn And trots beside her husband, through the grass That shudders in the late November wind, Or lies like frozen foam beneath our feet, Looking for buffalo meat! RETURN OF THE TRAPPERS Against the rolling snowdrifts, Misted by the frost-fog, Dwarfish, pigmy figures, See them come! Open the gates of the great stockade, Welcome them home. There's my Red-Scarf! I can almost hear him snarling, "Marche! Marche!" Down at old Fort Garry, I have heard them say That they take the women, Who dog-trot behind them All the way. Not out here! Not out here! With the glass at minus forty Half the year! There's the first big husky-- Think you hear his bell? That is Henri leading; Yes, among a thousand halfbreeds, I would know his yell! What you bet the sleds hold? There's a slide! Why that drift the other day Stretched a half mile wide. What you bet the sleds hold? Fire the gun! Here the women come, pell mell. They've got ears, those Indian women, Not much need to fire the gun! Now we're in for days of steeping, Matching, drying, sorting--rum. Hear the whips crack! Hi! Hi! See, that's Henri! Three, four, five-- Not one train lost. Here they come! AN OLD LADY Madame de Courament excels at Bridge. Hers is a clever hand, Coloured with age and wrinkled; But beautiful and tapering too, Quite in accord with this old, stately room, With crystal chandeliers, And flowers and the warm tapestry of books. Silent the cards fall. Down the long avenue a dog howls at the moon, A far, frost-sharpened sound. The wind swirls up a little storm of snow That blows against the casement. A skilled opponent, Madame makes few mistakes Like that a moment since, When suddenly the dog howled--and we lost a trick. She has a flashing wit, Dinners at Rideau Hall are incomplete without her. As someone said the other day, "These elderly, elaborate folk Are like a passing pageantry, Gorgeous and of another day." Silent the cards fall. Again the far-off dog howls at the moon. An hour later, "Chateau Laurier" she told the chauffeur. And, alert and gay, Wrapped in her sables, She was motoring me the long white way to town And gossiping of little this and that. But just as we were nearing city lights She said, "I saw you noticed that dog's bark. It sounded almost like a wolf's; It took me back to the Red River days. Oh, it was fifty years ago, my dear; I was as young as you ... It seems like yesterday. Hardships! I loved it all! Even the wolves, baying far out of sight, Failed to disturb our rest When we were safe at home. The Indians were quite friendly-- And the eternal glamour of the snow! And yet to-night, just when I heard that sound, Sharpened by frost, I felt an old pain strike me, The knife-like thrust, before a child is born. I was alone that night. My husband had been called to Edmonton, My Indian maid had let her family in Looking for whiskey. I dared not call to her. For hours the Indians danced and sang and yelled. I watched them from my icy-cold bedroom Through great cracks in the floor. Before they slept they sat crouched by the fire, As I crouched up above in fright and pain. And all night long I heard the wolves; They kept a sort of savage company With my own stifled cries. To-night, my mind went back a moment strangely-- I always thought he had the sweetest face Of any of my seven ... But then he was the first!" She raised her glittering hand And found the speaking tube, to modify her chauffeur's pace. "And that, my dear, was fifty years ago," she said. "The prairie was a very different place-- I never thought, then, I should come to Bridge!" SPANISH PILOTS _To Agnes C. Laut_ These were the ragged peon crews, Half-bloods of Aztec women, Of Spaniards and adventurers Who were not seeking heaven! But out on the broad seas driven, And from the Horn to Sitka, They searched for deep-sea findings The whole unknown way, With "small ringing of bells And no trumpet blare, Empty stomachs, and empty guns, But plenty of prayer." And if they failed of the findings, Nothing behind but the branding irons, Or slavery in the mines. Yet they sang As they sailed in their rickety death-traps; They laughed as they rode, And they sank as the rip-tide caught them fast With a cry to the Virgin, A prayer to the Virgin-- There was plenty of prayer at the last! WOMEN ENCHANTMENT I never see a blue jay But I think of her; Never hear that hoarse "dear--dear" From a tree-top stir, And the answering call Far, far away, And the flash of azure-- Oh, she would stay Listening in the forest, Loitering through the silence, Hearing calls and singing All the livelong day! SHE WHO PADDLES She who paddles swiftly, Lithe and brown in the sun, And dances, lithe as an Indian princess In the barbaric days of splendour Might have done-- She can laugh and jest too, Play and wine and dine; But none of these things have wooed me, Bound me close by a mystery, Made her eternally mine. For we have found still places Deep in the wood; Climbed a ledge of grey rock Where a pink-legged heron stood; Heard the distant loon's cry; Watched a lonely bird fly-- And she does not stir then, Does not turn to me then, But softly walks in the forest In no great need of men. DOWN NEAR THE GLEN (In fear of fairies Irish women sometimes disguise their boys as girls) "I dress him sweet," the woman told me, "All in white with a frill of lace. See his hair An' the curls that's on it! Do ye know a girl with a safter face? "If so I keep him till five or over, There's not a one will steal him then! With a saft wee girl They'd never bother, The thievin' fairies down in the glen. "Never take chances!" the woman warned me, "For a boy is the thing that sticks to your heart!" But I was mad! I had decked mine bravely; He was moulded a man from the very start. THE BOLSHEVIK I met a woman of the Ward; She was in gay attire; Her blouse was blue, her toes were through, Her ear-rings flashed like fire. A little boy with lustrous eyes Tugged at her coloured skirt; His skin was warm as the southern born, And he was caked in dirt. Two women on the sunny street-- We fell to friendly talk Of grocers' ways, and how it pays To purchase as you walk. I asked her, as a neighbour might, If she had news to tell. She answered me, "Oh, quiet-lee, I think we soon raise hell! "Too much we give to grocer-men; Too much the rich have place; More war to-day is the only way To put rich in hees place! "We speak a leetle, you and I, Some papers scatter round, Soon rich will be, quite quiet-lee, All trampled on the ground. "My man, he has a job all right, But he might have much more. Make leetle war, and there we are: No rich man at our door." The dusky boy with lustrous eyes Listened to his mamma, And then said he, quite quiet-lee, "Most dear, to-day I saw "One motor car that I will own When I am grown a man!" His beauty spoke, in eyes, in throat, As just sheer beauty can. And she forgot the little war, The beckoning blood and dirt; She smoothed his curls, so like a girl's, And smoothed his gay striped shirt. "Grow up, be good, my little boy; One motor you may run!" Her eyes burned deep, war fell asleep As she looked on her son. * * * * * I met a woman of the Ward; She was in gay attire; Her blouse was blue, her toes were through, Her ear-rings flashed like fire. PAVLOWA DANCING Footsteps of youth through the springtime playing, Footfalls of snow in a blue mist straying, The rose of Russia in a bright wind swaying-- A rose of fire and snow. Voices chanting everywhere, but no word said, Fairy bells from ancient towers signalling the dead, Light love tuning viols while the dance runs red-- A flaming dance of death. White barbaric winters and a sky star-strung, All the hidden pathways, all the songs unsung, Caught in flying footsteps over wild music hung-- She dances, and the Czar lies dead. Oh, the cries, and martyrdoms, and fatal morns, Scarlet nights and fiery wine and bitter scorns, Dancing in a rose of joy from a field of thorns-- Rapture from a land of thorns! CALVÉ IN BLUE Here is blue fire That burns mere youth away And leaves sheer passion. Out of the coloured flame What pageantries arise, As that caressing tone, Through shimmering veils of harp and flute, Seems to peer ghost-like down Into a million hearts in nights long gone-- Into a million eyes! There is a black mantilla Of ancient Spanish lace Over the deep blue gown. The voice of Carmen sings again, The mocking voice of Carmen, scarlet still With love and certain doom. In it there swings a sword, And through it blows a laughing word-- That strange, and quite inevitable word That time can never kill. SIGN TO TRESPASSERS Was ever a woman Quite alone for a day? Other women will come Who should stay away. Because my casement's open, As I wait here for you, Comes the faint Persephone Trailing through the dew. She has lived a thousand years, Clasped her cosmic rose; Why she comes to trouble me Only heaven knows! And there's another woman Keeps whispering in my ear, Till she has the whole house Pierced through with fear. Some wandering nun it is, Whose lips can only pray, Has made my house a cloister In this dreary way. And even now your taxi Must be racing through the town. (Will you love me, O my lover, In this pale yellow gown?) I have written out a sign That I hope they will obey-- "For all Peering Women There is no Right of Way." SILVER SLIPPERS I never wore slippers On sweet April evenings, But boots made for roads that we travelled in woe, For morning and evening Meant rough wayside places And feet that were slow. But now silver slippers, Light-mannered, bright slippers, Great mirror-like floors and a green velvet lawn, Where we beckon with laughter, With music, with dancing, Sad youth--that is gone. A FABULOUS DAY Oh, the days of the week they are constantly seven! And as certain to stay as the fixed stars in heaven. But my heart that denies them will wander away To find a more likeable, well furnished day That I know exists somewhere, invisible, real, And shining with moments the seven days steal. The stocking I've wanted to darn since the spring, The folk-song, forgotten, that calls me to sing, The little old lady I hurry to see, The cumbersome caller, long promised to tea, Or the half-hidden passion pushed by through the week: These surely may people the day that I seek. Sometimes I shall play with a soul never born: A companion I met on the far side of morn. I shall nod at the losses I wept for last night, And find my to-morrows expectant and bright. But mostly I think the whole twenty-four hours Will be spent in designing a new bed of flowers; For everyone's heart, when it wanders away, Has its own things to do on a fabulous day. CHRISTMAS EVE My house is arrayed In its garlands of Christmas delight; A red rose is this house In its holly and soft candle light. But my heart is as cold As the heart of a colourless rose, And I feel the dead weight Of your holiday blanket of snows. TO MARJORIE PICKTHALL The day you died, that April yesterday, I was alone in sunny meadow places, When, turning a dark clump of wintry leaves, I caught a glimpse of exquisite fresh faces, Renewing earth. Then, thinking of another April day When you and I found bloom beneath the snow, I sent you happy thoughts across the world, Not dreaming it the day you were to go-- But yesterday. Yet, oh, not lost! how many a year shall turn, And youth and age, lonely for some bright way, Shall sudden feel you on the face of earth And push back death, and pluck you like the may-- Immortal Song! I WHO CUT PATTERNS I who cut patterns, As every soul must do, Fret myself with longing For themes that are new. All these fashions Were moulded years gone by, And, like the mask of politics, Are coloured with a lie. Even the treasured love motif, This thing of you and me, It must so carefully be cut To keep us bound, yet free. And death, the sombre casket Of centuries of song, And war, and rivalries and creeds, These we have used too long. To-day I found a charming thing Of silk and golden lace, And yet, beneath the filigree, What an old, wrinkled face! Still, I believe in legends Of laughter and delight, And words all coloured with the sun And perfumed by the night. And I've a mind to leave the shops And fashions old and new, And cut my pattern from a wind, And baste it up with dew. I who cut patterns, As every soul must do, Fret myself with longing For themes that are new. POETESSES You who loved all lovely things And wrought in jewelled lines; You have gone your gracious ways That are patterned in dim stones Of perfumed, faint-hued words; You were a thing so feminine That even of war you sang in tender notes, But now another one has come, Who is herself at war. Her songs are keen and glittering, For she has felt the magic fire That you did long ago; But now the fire has burned clean through And forged a sword of steel. Swinging swords are women's songs That gleam as hard as diamonds do, And mean to cut tradition. And yet those jewelled lines! Strangely the ancient magic works, Strangely the same fire lurks And burns imprisoned there In your dim, opaled words, That run like paths in heaven Paved in mosaic of sweet stones, And make a scented highway for our feet, Who wield these swinging swords. GOING NORTH GOING NORTH I _White Porches_ Just as we left the avenue I saw a golden butterfly Flutter against the windshield. I felt the motor take the breeze, As gaily as a yacht might do Upon some tidal river of the seas. We sailed a broad grey asphalt Out past the red brick houses, And fringy, ragged outskirts To where the fields begin. And Pickering, Whitby, Oshawa, Flashed by like friendly postscripts Of the Town's lengthy scroll, With dusty little detours, And cobblestone communities To break the highway's hundred miles Of river-like content. We smiled at sleepy Main Streets, And joyous village gardens, And sprawling crimson orchards, Heavy with ripened fruit. Each mile or two a butterfly Danced near the blazing windshield, "The same gold butterfly!" we said, "And the same village street!" We passed a hundred porches, Ancient and modern porches, And some of them were white ones, And those we loved the best. Many a bed of phlox we passed, Lilac and pink and white, And they were gardens of delight Along our asphalt river-front-- Sheer gardens of delight. We loved all purple calicoes On cheerful, ambling ladies, Their morning work already done, Sauntering through a mile of sun Up to the general store. Sometimes they sat on porches, Narrow but shining porches, Serenely shelling peas. "Just what is life," we wondered, "For those who sit contented Throughout the magic summer On these pale country porches, Patching--knitting--talking-- Serenely shelling peas?" II _Grey Willows_ 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! ... 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