Bliss Carman
Earth Voices
I I heard the spring wind whisper Above the brushwood fire, “The world is made forever Of transport and desire. “I am the breath of being, The primal urge of things; I am the
A Sea Child
The lover of child Marjory Had one white hour of life brim full; Now the old nurse, the rocking sea, Hath him to lull. The daughter of child Marjory Hath in her veins, to
The Ships of Saint John
Where are the ships I used to know, That came to port on the Fundy tide Half a century ago, In beauty and stately pride? In they would come past the beacon light, With
Lord of my Heart's Elation
Lord of my heart’s elation, Spirit of things unseen, Be thou my aspiration Consuming and serene! Bear up, bear out, bear onward This mortal soul alone, To selfhood or oblivion, Incredibly thine own,- As
On Love
TO the assembled folk At great St. Kavin’s spoke Young Brother Amiel on Christmas Eve; I give you joy, my friends, That as the round year ends, We meet once more for gladness by
Behind the Arras
I like the old house tolerably well, Where I must dwell Like a familiar gnome; And yet I never shall feel quite at home. I love to roam. Day after day I loiter and
Rivers of Canada
O all the little rivers that run to Hudson’s Bay, They call me and call me to follow them away. Missinaibi, Abitibi, Little Current where they run Dancing and sparkling I see them in
By the Aurelian Wall
In Memory of John Keats By the Aurelian Wall, Where the long shadows of the centuries fall From Caius Cestius’ tomb, A weary mortal seeking rest found room For quiet burial, Leaving among his
The Vagabonds
We are the vagabonds of time, And rove the yellow autumn days, When all the roads are gray with rime And all the valleys blue with haze. We came unlooked for as the wind
If Death be Good
(Sappho LXXIV) If death be good, Why do the gods not die? If life be ill, Why do the gods still live? If love be naught, Why do the gods still love? If love
The Old Gray Wall
Time out of mind I have stood Fronting the frost and the sun, That the dream of the world might endure, And the goodly will be done. Did the hand of the builder guess,
The Winter Scene
I The rutted roads are all like iron; skies Are keen and brilliant; only the oak-leaves cling In the bare woods, or the hardy bitter-sweet; Drivers have put their sheepskin jackets on; And all
Low Tide on Grand Pré
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. And yet I know
Why
FOR a name unknown, Whose fame unblown Sleeps in the hills For ever and aye; For her who hears The stir of the years Go by on the wind By night and day; And
A Song before Sailing
Wind of the dead men’s feet, Blow down the empty street Of this old city by the sea With news for me! Blow me beyond the grime And pestilence of time! I am too