Part 17 (1/2)

CANADA

(ACROSTIC)

Crown of her, young Vancouver; crest of her, old Quebec; Atlantic and far Pacific sweeping her, keel to deck.

North of her, ice and arctics; southward a rival's stealth; Aloft, her Empire's pennant; below, her nation's wealth.

Daughter of men and markets, bearing within her hold, Appraised at highest value, cargoes of grain and gold.

THE LIFTING OF THE MIST

All the long day the vapours played At blindfold in the city streets, Their elfin fingers caught and stayed The sunbeams, as they wound their sheets Into a filmy barricade 'Twixt earth and where the sunlight beats.

A vagrant band of mischiefs these, With wings of grey and cobweb gown; They live along the edge of seas, And creeping out on foot of down, They chase and frolic, frisk and tease At blind-man's buff with all the town.

And when at eventide the sun Breaks with a glory through their grey, The vapour-fairies, one by one, Outspread their wings and float away In clouds of colouring, that run Wine-like along the rim of day.

Athwart the beauty and the breast Of purpling airs they twirl and twist, Then float away to some far rest, Leaving the skies all colour-kiss't-- A glorious and a golden West That greets the Lifting of the Mist.

THE HOMING BEE

You are belted with gold, little brother of mine, Yellow gold, like the sun That spills in the west, as a chalice of wine When feasting is done.

You are gossamer-winged, little brother of mine, Tissue winged, like the mist That broods where the marshes melt into a line Of vapour sun-kissed.

You are laden with sweets, little brother of mine, Flower sweets, like the touch Of hands we have longed for, of arms that entwine, Of lips that love much.

You are better than I, little brother of mine, Than I, human-souled, For you bring from the blossoms and red summer s.h.i.+ne, For others, your gold.

THE LOST LAGOON

It is dusk on the Lost Lagoon, And we two dreaming the dusk away, Beneath the drift of a twilight grey, Beneath the drowse of an ending day, And the curve of a golden moon.

It is dark in the Lost Lagoon, And gone are the depths of haunting blue, The grouping gulls, and the old canoe, The singing firs, and the dusk and--you, And gone is the golden moon.

O! lure of the Lost Lagoon,-- I dream to-night that my paddle blurs The purple shade where the seaweed stirs, I hear the call of the singing firs In the hush of the golden moon.

THE TRAIN DOGS

Out of the night and the north; Savage of breed and of bone, s.h.a.ggy and swift comes the yelping band, Freighters of fur from the voiceless land That sleeps in the Arctic zone.

Laden with skins from the north, Beaver and bear and racc.o.o.n, Marten and mink from the polar belts, Otter and ermine and sable pelts-- The spoils of the hunter's moon.