UNDER THE SUN

Delve deep amongst the musty muniments

The archives of the Courts at Trois Rivières

The old Notarial files of Montreal

Sneeze with the long lying dust and tire your eyes

With scanning of old script, perchance you’ll find

The name of Nicolas Gatineau, Sieur du Plessis,

Greffier of the Court, tabellion,

Once with the Hundred Associates, trader of furs,

The penner of dry documents, a scrivener

Of legal terms; and were that all, you’d say

“Why tempt the dusty sneeze, the tired eyes

To find perhaps a deed to one La Salle?”

But is that all? The record shows scant else

And yet the fact remains, the fact remains

A great and lovely river bears his name

And sings it to the sun and to the stars.

Tiring of musty tomes he roamed the woods,

Coursed with the Coureur de Bois the lakes and streams

To hoard himself small gold, a patrimony,

That he might turn again to his Belle France

And live his life in safe and quiet content.

Fate intervened and wrote a different tale

Marked “finis” to the life of Gatineau;

But it’s not told in musty tome or deed

What mishap, what chance accident upset

His long-laid plans, but legend says

The great and lovely river took his life,

Not satisfied nor sated took his name

And bears it to this day, a good return,

Fair interest on the investment of a life,

More profit than he ever hoped to gain—

The increment of immortality.

We are the outcasts

we with the sodden bulging boots

the broken feet

the dirty pack slung on the back

the eyes that dare not meet

our fellows’ eyes.

We are the outcasts

we with the hungry empty hearts

the griping pain

the slouching walk the dirty talk

bodies that long have lain

in sodden fields.

We are the outcasts

we of the furtive shifty glance

the whining tone

the canned heat drink the sweaty stink

and food of a dog’s soup bone

in the jungle.

We are the outcasts

we of the young but grim creased face

battered with grime

the hopeless search the final lurch

and thrust of impetuous crime

to a barren grave.

The summer wind

Blew through the maple tree

Growing beside the little church

In the Jesuit Mission of St. Joseph

And the branches shivered,

Quivered

And shook

And the little bell

Hanging there

To call the Hurons to their worship

Softly tinkled,

Sprinkled

Its notes amongst the trees

Of the great wilderness.

Then the breeze died,

A bird cried

And the notes were lost,

Tossed

Into oblivion

Lost, lost;

And the bell tinkled no more

In the belfry tree

Spreading its green branches

In benediction

Over the Mission of St. Joseph.

Dawn burned,

Cast a scarlet glow in the sky

Of countless camp fires

Flaming,

Licking the clouds with lapping tongues of fire,

Drinking night with insatiable thirst

And unappeased desire

Until all darkness was consumed,

Obliterated;

Then safely raised the sun his head

And shone with kindly face upon the Mission of St. Joseph

In the land of the Hurons.

And with the dawn came Father Daniel

Returned from meditation, rest,

A week’s retreat at Sainte Marie

Amongst his confrères Brebeuf, Massé, Lalemant,

Where he had visions seen,

A great cross burning in the Iroquois land

And sailing through the sky to Sainte Marie

And visions too, perhaps,

Of martyrdom.

And so he came, his heart renewed

To face the task at hand

And save his heathen souls

From the devil’s grasp.

The mission bell is rung.

Swiftly they gather

The braves, the squaws, the children,

And now they kneel in prayer, the Mass is said

In the little church

Decorated with brightly coloured pictures,

Images,

Tinsel,

Ornaments,

Baubles to please the savage eye,

The fancy of a child.

And Father Daniel smiles upon his naked flock

And blesses them

And thanks his God for all his goodness shewn,

For all his mercy to the savage hordes

Who now give homage;

And for the peace and quiet of the day.

And now the prayer is done, the Hurons rise

Prepared to leave

When suddenly without the palisades

The war cry of the Iroquois is heard

And swift they come,

A howling swarm,

An ocean wave

That rises with the tide,

Retreats,

Comes on again,

Goes back,

Then with a final fling,

An overwhelming rush

Breaks all the barriers down,

Sweeps all before it.

And so they came;

And Father Daniel standing there

At the door of his little church,

Bravely he faced them,

His flock behind him,

Robed in his vestments,

The Cross held high,

A light on his face,

Transfigured,

Bravely he faced them,

Telling his people to flee,

No thought of flight for himself,

“Today,” he said to them,

“We meet in heaven.”

And something about him,

The unflinching courage,

The Cross,

The vestments,

The light on his face,

Held the fiends back for a moment

And silent the Iroquois stood

Gazing on him in bewilderment;

And then the cry was raised once more

And pandemonium broke,

The bows were strung,

A host of arrows pierced the valiant priest,

A bullet found his heart

And the horde was upon him

Stripping him naked,

Drinking his blood

In the false hope

Of absorbing his valour,

Tearing his flesh,

Dead to the torment.

And so he fell at the door of the little church

In the Mission of St. Joseph

In the land of the Hurons.

Sunset flamed,

Casting a glow in the sky

Of countless camp fires

Flaring

And a rival fire

Reached for the sky,

Reddened the dusk;

The burning walls

Of the Mission of St. Joseph

Fired by the Iroquois

Reddened the dusk

With a fearful light

Making the night

Hideous to behold,

A holocaust,

A funeral pyre

For Antoine Daniel

And his little flock

In the Mission of St. Joseph

In the land of the Hurons.

The autumn wind

Blew through the belfry tree

Growing beside the charred ruins

Where once stood the little church

Of the Mission of St. Joseph.

And the maple leaves were touched with frosty fire

And scarlet they glowed,

Blood crimson they showed

When the breeze stirred them

And the branches trembled,

Shook,

Stirred the little bell

Still hanging there,

Till it tinkled,

Sprinkled its notes on the autumn air

But no one came to its summons,

No voice answered its call,

All was silent and still

And the bell tinkled no more

From the maple tree

Robed in red vestments,

Raising its arms in supplication

Before the scarlet altar lamps of autumn

In the loneliness and desolation

Of the Mission of St. Joseph.

Ah yes, machinery,

the beauty,

the savagery

of moving machinery,

that’s a sight

should give delight

to all men’s eyes.

See the pistons

smoothly move

in a groove;

see the wheels

turning round

ceaseless sound;

hear the pound

of mighty hammers

with their clamours,

rising, falling,

never stalling;

watch the knife

so bright and clean

cutting like a guillotine;

hear the presses

crush and crunch,

eat greedily

their metal lunch;

see the fires

that fiercely burn

near the boiler’s

Grecian urn.

Behold the men,

who, pygmies, stand,

watching, waiting,

every hand

poised and ready,

always steady,

pulling levers,

sweating, working,

never shirking,

listening,

listening,

ears agog

lest some machine

should slip a cog.

Behold the men

dwarfed and small,

dreamed a goddess,

now her thrall.

See them polish,

watch them shine,

worshippers

machinery’s shrine

where sometimes

they make sacrifice

but why tell that

it’s not so nice.

Machinery’s

a goddess cold

who has no heart

so it is told.

Here’s her altar

sing the mass,

mass production,

sing it well,

that will save

a soul from hell,

mass production,

a tradition

that should save us

from perdition

and should save

both me and you,

answer, goddess,

is that true?

See the goddess

slyly smile,

surely she would not

beguile

all the worshippers

who kneel

and cringe

beneath

her spurning heel.

She gives no answer,

pays no heed

to those who supplicate

in need.

Is it because

her heart is cold

or has she got

a heart of gold?

The answer

time will soon decide

so let’s forget

the ugly side,

watch the beauty

full of pride,

praise the rhythm

sing the speed,

count carloadings,

lose the greed,

forget the flaws,

the sacrifice,

ignore the things

that aren’t so nice.

Machinery

is just a toy,

a plaything

for the growing boy;

ah, that’s the talk,

sing what a joy

to tend and feed

the perfect toy.

Ah yes, machinery,

the beauty,

the savagery

of moving machinery.

Feet, feet,

Marching feet,

Hear them

Marching down the street,

Marching, marching,

There they go,

As they went

Not long ago.

Feet, feet,

Marauding feet,

See them

Trampling down the wheat;

Trampling, pillaging

They go,

So the Hun

Not long ago.

Feet, feet,

Ghostly feet,

Are they

Phantoms in the street?

Silent, muffled,

Hushed they go

Out to meet

A ghostly foe.

Feet, feet,

Youthful feet,

The earth

Re-echoes to their beat,

Marching, marching,

Proud they go,

So they went

Not long ago.

Where Atlas holds the earth on high

And buildings rush to meet the sky,

A little skating rink doth lie

Below the millions passing by.

The windowed hills it dwells among,

Well swept and honoured, yet unsung,

As though a god had careless flung

A mirror from his chain unstrung.

Men, women, children skate around

This miniature the world’s playground,

Between the City’s ceaseless sound,

Inferno where the subways pound.

I couldn’t help but stand and stare;

The City’s life was pictured there;

For some go round without a care

But many struggle, some despair.

The moon

Is a silver dollar

Burning a hole

In the pocket

Of profligate night

And soon

She will take it

And break it

And spend it

And squander the change

Recklessly,

Fecklessly,

In a largess of stars

Tossed into pool

Into lake

And the river

Will quiver

And shake

With exquisite light;

Birches

Will bend

Appallingly white,

Frail flesh

In a mesh

Of shadow

And light.

Oh the gold of her

the molten gold

the cataract

of orient hair

enough to make Cellini

stand and stare!

The craftsman’s soul

of Benvenuto would have flamed

at all the richness lavished

all the gold

would have stirred

until he told

and beat

her beauty into metal

fashioned and fastened for all time

the face and form that lured his hands

to artificer’s toil.

But Benvenuto’s dead these many years.

Beauty has beaten her raiment

rich as the revelling leaves that swirl

beneath stark naked trees

in autumn.

Beauty has beaten her raiment

lovelier than Helen ever bore

or lost Susanna

when the Elders looked with lustful eyes

and wished her ill.

Beauty has beaten her raiment

garnered old gold

and all the misers’ riches

winnowed with profligate splendour

sheave on sheave

and massed the molten avalanche of her hair.

The night is cold

the stars are cold

and we though young

are old

too old

our clothes are torn

by wind and thorn

and some have died

and no one cried

Oh, we are old

too old.

The days are long

the nights are long

and we though young

are strong

too strong

for we must go

both to and fro

world without end

and death’s a friend

but we are strong

too strong.

The streets are mired

our feet are mired

and we though young

are tired

too tired

for we must walk

where people mock

compelled to roam

we have no home

Oh, we are tired

too tired.

We thumb our way

we bum our way

and we though young

are gray

too gray

we would not shirk

if there was work

we curse our birth

and have no mirth

for we are gray

too gray.

The nights we dread

the days we dread

for we though young

are dead

half dead.

O God above

show us some love

a woman’s breast

our heads to rest

for we are dead

half dead.

Men’s hearts are cold

our hearts are cold

and we though young

are old

too old

our greatest crime

to beg a dime

our greatest scorn

that we were born

Oh, we are old

too old.

Lovely in the springtime with the first green showing,

Lifts its youthful branches, the beech tree on the hill,

Lovely in the autumn, with the lost leaves blowing,

Brown as maidens’ tresses, the leaves upon her still.

Slender as a maiden with her white limbs shining,

Stepping down the hillside to bathe beside the mere,

Slim as any maiden, Oh beauty past divining,

Stands the slender beech tree with no companions near.

Beautiful in winter, her sere leaves ashiver,

Draining golden sunshine, soft shadowing the snow,

Beautiful in winter, her white limbs aquiver,

Dreaming on the hillside until the snow will go.

The place names of our country

Are music on the lips,

The sound of them comes singing

As sing the sails of ships.

The place names of our country

Are music on the tongue,

Their magic sings the burden

Of sagas yet unsung.

And Bigot laughed, taking a pinch of snuff,

He loudly sneezed and touched his bulbous nose

Delicately with a handkerchief of lace

Then smiled again pointing across the street

Where people stood before the cheat, Friponne,

Waiting patiently their meagre dole of bread.

“You say, my dear Péan, the people starve,

That Montcalm writes the King again complaining,

But facts speak for themselves, see, a generous King

Feeds like a fond father his trusting flock;

Admittedly with some slight benefit

To me and mine and this being so

To you; forget the people, they can well

Fend for themselves; enough, I hold you back

And you in haste to leave for Montreal:

Good luck, give my regards to all our friends;

I’ll see your wife’s not lonely while you’re gone.”

And Bigot smiled again and Péan left.

The Intendant gazed from the Palace window

But did not see the people waiting there

Nor did he hear them murmur in dismay

When told that no more bread was to be had;

Nor did he hear a footstep in the room,

A light and running step that nearer came

Then paused and quietly stole upon him

Dreaming there in the great Palace window.

The two small feet soon stopped and raised themselves

On tip-toe; two small hands blinded his eyes

In fun and a sweet cajoling voice cried out,

“François, François, guess and say who it is.”

And Bigot smiled this time a different smile

And turning quickly seized her in his arms

And held her there and kissed her waiting lips,

Looking on her in wonder and dismay.

“You seem surprised,” she whispered breathlessly,

“Are you not pleased? If not, I’ll go at once.”

And with a show of leaving him she raised her arms

To shove him from her with a futile strength,

But Bigot crushed her close exultantly.

“Yvette, Yvette, your husband has but left

This bare half hour and here was I dreaming

Of you and now my dream’s come true.—

How came you here so soon? I did not hope,

My love, to see you till the dinner hour was come.”

And Yvette snuggling closer answered him.

“The carriole was waiting at the door

When he returned and so I saw him off

At once, for the King’s business cannot wait

So I’ve been told,” and laughter lit her eyes.

“My patriot, my little patriot,

True words are often spoken in a jest

And prophecy upon an aimless tongue

Sometimes comes tripping unaware; I would

At times that I did serve my King, but stop—

I serious grow. Oh seal my hungry lips once more

With those red seals of silence that I love.”

Outside the crowd still murmured and the dusk

Fell, filling the street and all the city

With sudden silence and then a bugle blew

Far off and faintly came the sound of guns.

Far down the river intermittent musketry

Tapped with cold fingers at the window pane;

Then again came silence but a dog’s bark

Brought down their thoughts to earth again.

“Ma foi, the English, drat them,” Bigot said,

“They always break my trend of thought, but then

I should be thankful to them for they fill

My coffers with pure gold although they know

It not! but that’s not here nor there; those guns

We heard are theirs, so stop your pretty ears

Lest you be frightened home, my Patriot.”

“The English, bah,” making a pretty face—

But as she did so a commotion rose

In the street, loud stamping of feet was heard

And voices raised in anger, running feet

Beat on the floor of the Palace hall

Without the room and swiftly they beat nearer.

Harshly a woman shrieked, “I’ll see him now,

You or yours can’t stop me.” Swift the curtains

Burst apart, revealed a haggard woman

With hair unkempt and ragged dirty clothes

And a maniac gleam in her wild eyes

That held them where they were as though a frost

Had suddenly congealed their rigid limbs.

Then Bigot paled, got up, “What do you want?

How came you here?” His voice was blunt and harsh.

The woman laughed, but mirthless was the sound,

Then raised a bony finger pointing at him.

“You’re at your tricks again, I see,” she sneered,

“You’ll make of her what you have made of me,

A trollop and a woman of the street

Whom people cross the road to pass

Lest their fine linen should be soiled by touch

Of mine; take heed, Yvette, take warning now

Before it is too late; look well at me

For I was once like you, but youth’s now gone,

My beauty broken when he cast it down

To shatter in the gutter while he turned

To other fields to solace his sad heart.”

Her voice broke on a sob and she half fell

And would have fallen had she not grasped

The curtain where she stood, and all the while

Bigot was speechless, Yvette was silent,

Pale and white save for her scarlet lips

That cut her face like a grim and livid scar.

Now Bigot swift took action. “Ho there, guard!”

And at his voice dull heavy feet came running.

“Seize her, men!” Quick they grasped her either side

And waiting further orders; loud she screamed;

“Take heed, brave François Bigot, what you do,

The English come, the burdened people starve

While you grow fat by robbing of the King.

Your time will come, I say, your time will come.

The lillied flag of France will soon be struck,

The English Wolfe is waiting at the door

And will not be denied. Oh, how I’ll laugh

To see you dragged in chains to the Bastille—

Your time is near I warn and prophecy,

And sweet the taste of vengeance on that day.”

“Take her away,” snarled Bigot, while his lips

Curled in disgust as the soldiers dragged her off.

And then he turned, “I’m sorry for this scene,

Yvette,” then paused for no one else was there,

The room was empty and no voice replied.

Giving a careless shrug he took some snuff

And walked towards the door, delayed.

“These women, oh these women, how they rant;

Thank God there’s plenty of ’em, plenty more

To take the place of those who run away.

I wonder what she could have meant?” he mused.

“ ‘To see you dragged in chains to the Bastille’—

To say the least a pleasant thought,” he smiled,

“But then the woman’s mad; enough of this;

I’ll go and see the door’s well locked

Against this English Wolfe she raved about.”

And chuckling to himself he left the room.

Dragons

Fiercely flashing

Glaring eyes

Both red and green

Devouring

The quiet

Of night

With champing

Maws;

Tramping

With insolent

Ceaseless tread

And feet of lead

Upon retreating

Trembling

Vanquished earth

While houses shake

And people wake.

Tangled carcasses

straining,

struggling,

on a butcher’s block,

inextricably tangled,

moving in the slow motion

of death’s last spasm,

bounding apart

in sudden

jumping paroxysm,

tottering,

falling,

gasping,

grunting,

shambling to the grand finale

in the slow tense motion

of death’s

great agony.

Roar of the crowd,

roar of the crowd,

frantic men,

frenzied women,

the Roman Arena,

lusting for blood,

lusting for the kill,

impatient at the slow motion

of the carcasses

writhing their last long writhe,

thrusting thumbs down

with inordinate, gloating pleasure,

draining the last ounce of sadistic satisfaction

from the dying despair,

garrulous groan,

the penultimate pang.

Roar of the crowd,

roar of the crowd,

exultant,

goading,

exhorting,

frenzied acclaim,

tumultuous applause,

crying of “shame”,

impatient,

waiting,

the final fling,

the sickening

ultimate thud

on the sacrificial block.

Roar of the crowd,

roar of the crowd.

Hands, hands,

haunting hands,

marauding lecherous hands

endured tormenting years

with unresisting passion

grope in the air,

float in the air

before her dimming eyes,

gliding with snaky fingers in the gloom

to seek her out,

to find her out.

Loved hands,

hands lost

long ago

before tormenting years took toll

return like apparitions from the past.

Phantoms, phantoms,

fading

fade

and are lost

again.

Hands, hands,

harrying hands

everywhere, everywhere;

interminable hands,

wraiths of the air, plunderers,

haunt her fast dimming eyes

seeking, seeking

with the old relentless lust

to find her flesh,

to find her flesh.

And then the hands of death

swoop down,

O healing touch,

mighty, powerful,

invincible,

swoop down,

down through the dark

of endless tormenting years

to softly close

and seal

her eyes

in gentle

dreamless

sleep.

Great river take my body

Upon thy peaceful breast;

O sky and air my spirit

To its determined rest.

Great world I loved you ever

And take my last farewell

I go to join my fellows

In a land no one can tell.

O earth when springtime wakens

And trilliums white thy floor

Recall that to thy beauty

I opened once the door.

Great river take my body

And chant your way along

Enfold me in your waters

And sing your marching song.

Go march with me forever

For travellers both are we,

One journeying to the ocean

One to eternity.

Great river take my body

Upon thy waters deep

Enfold me as a mother

Who sings her child to sleep.

Great river take my body

And grant it rest and peace;

O sky and air my spirit

To you I now release.

The little inn at Bethlehem

Was crowded to the door,

The little inn at Bethlehem

Had room for no one more.

Travellers, merchants from Chaldea

Who came to barter, sell,

A spy of Herod one of them,

Whose purpose none could tell.

And there was noise and merriment

And singing in the street;

A ragged leper with his bell

Limped by with shuffling feet.

Two travellers from Nazareth

Came with the failing light,

With aching limbs and weary hearts

Sought shelter for the night.

The landlord had no room for them

And said they could not bide,

Joseph a simple carpenter

With Mary by his side.

A common stable harboured them

And there they lay till morn;

Amongst the scattered hay and straw

Was little Jesus born.

Then came the Wise Men from the East

With gifts from lands afar,

To find the Babe of Bethlehem,

Led by a huge white star.

The people mused and marvelled much

And whispering spread abroad,

Had Bethlehem’s unworthy inn

Refused the Son of God?

The little inn at Bethlehem

Had room for no one more.

The little inn at Bethlehem

Was crowded to the door.

I live in a haunted house;

The wind blew the door open,

Whistle, bang.

In walked Mr. Wander;

Thump, thump.

Went his stump in the porch, in the hall,

Thump, thump,

Came the sound of his weird footfall,

Thump, thump,

Went the peg of the ghost’s wooden leg

Then he paused at the bottom of the stairs.

Silence a moment, then the wind blew,

“I’ve come to call, how do you do!”

Said Mr. Wander.

Looking over the railing

There I saw him standing

Waiting on the landing

Looking up at me

And his eyes met mine

And twinkled merrily.

“I’ve come to call,” said Mr. Wander,

Pausing on the landing

And though it was rude

There I left him standing

For I just couldn’t bear the wild look in his eyes.

And then, after all, he was a surprise

So I rushed to the study,

Banged and bolted the door,

And oh, how I prayed I would hear him no more.

“I bid you good day,” chortled pale Mr. Wander,

Turned on one heel and paused just to ponder.

“Don’t you be frightened, I used to live here,

I always come back once or twice every year,

I’ll see you again,” he called as he went

And I’m only afraid lest he said what he meant.

Thump, thump,

Went his stump on the stair, down the hall,

Thump, thump,

Came the sound of his eerie footfall,

With a whistle and bang

The wind slammed the door.

Mr. Wander had left

I heard him no more.

I shall take my skis and go to the hills today.

Routine and work must wait for a duller morn For today

The world is white and new and clean,

Fresh blanketed with snow

That fell last night

And a warm March sun

Glows in the sky

As only a March sun can;

And the sky is blue

As nothing else is blue

On earth

Except, perhaps,

A field of cornflowers

In the sun of June.

I shall cross the treeless uplands

Swept by unwearying winds in unremitting toil

Where snow birds come to find scant mullein seeds

In pods turned black by buffets of the wind

And where upon a solitary oak

Dishevelled leaves

Shiver and scrape

And shake

With chattering cry

In the cold.

I shall climb to the heights through the woods

Where rabbit tracks cross and recross

To form a frenzied pattern in the white

And where a piece of fur, some scuffled snow

Denote but one more woodland tragedy.

The prattling chickadees

Will gossip by the trail

That leads up to the highest point

Whence slopes descend

Through wood

And field

To valleys

Far below.

Down the slopes I shall speed

Without care or heed

With the wind in my face

I shall run the good race

At a pace,

At a pace

Tries the nerve

With the swerve

At an unknown curve

And the thrill

Of the spill

And the bumps and the jumps

While the lilt

And song

Of the snow

On the ski

Sing to me,

Sing to me

Riding free,

Riding free.

The swish,

The swirl,

Of the snow, of the snow

Will whisper, will follow

Wherever I go

As downward, swift downward

I vanish headlong.

The wind is my fellow

And sings a mad song

As downward, still downward

Untrammelled I go,

Coursing and flying

On wings of the snow

To the far waiting valleys,

The far waiting valleys

In the depths

Far below.

I shall reach the treeless uplands

When the night is burdened with stars

And a virgin moon

Wanders the heavens unheeded

To meet the youthful dawn;

And high above the sleeping hills

The Northern Lights will wave

Their ghostly, greenish cerements,

Their tattered spectral cerements

Phosphorescent from the grave,

Until pale fingers

Reaching high

Grasp them,

Pull them from the sky,

Drag them down

And cast them down,

Those grisly greenish cerements,

To vanish slowly out of sight

In the caverns,

In the craters,

Deep abysses

Of the night.

I shall take my skis and go to the hills today.

Routine and work must wait for a duller morn

For today

The world is white and new and clean,

Fresh blanketed with snow

That fell last night.

I shall take my skis and go to the hills today.

Sometimes at night

I hear a train

Far off

Shunting in the yards,

And half asleep, half awake,

Dreaming,

I see a great giant

Striding the mountains,

Shuffling his huge feet

Along the valleys,

Puffing wearily,

Tired from a long day’s hunt,

Whistling eerily

As he trudges,

Shuffles

Home.

Now doth the old earth turn to take her rest

And clasp great quilts of colour to her breast,

With here a patch of red, a burst of gold,

And there a blaze of yellow fold on fold;

Patches of bronze and ochre, riot of flame

Resplendent as the banners of high fame.

All these and many more she gathers round

Then, like an Indian brave whose hunting ground

Lies not far off, she rolls her blankets tight,

Stretching her feet to the flickering fires of night

That constant and unwearying vigil keep,

Contentedly she turns her to her sleep.

The maples hang their crimson lamps

At the gate of the green forest

Fabulous lanterns aflame

Lighting the traveller’s steps

To the door of the deep wood.

The river’s lovely arm

braceleted, jewelled

with a million lights

enfolds the city’s form

and will not let it go.

A tourniquet of bridges

cannot stem

the turbulent, recurrent roar

of the life blood flow

as with impassioned pulse,

exultant leap

it surges madly on

fired from its usual slow lethargic pace

by the touch

of the city’s breast.

The river’s lovely arm

braceleted, jewelled

with a million lights

enfolds the city’s form

and will not let it go.

The moon

is a great bonfire

burning

at the rim of the sea

and the edge of night

kindled

by the Stars’ torches,

smoky,

smouldering

at first,

then

comes a burst

of flame

and the smoulder

growing bolder

flares into fire

and a pyre

flames fiercely a moment,

is consumed,

rises in silver smoke,

floats in the sky

and is gone.

Lost in the clouds

is the silver smoke

of the moon’s great bonfire

burning

at the edge

of the sea

and the rim

of night.

Shadows crouch,

cats curled up

asleep

upon the snow.

Comes afternoon

and soon

the cats

with slow

and leisured ease

awake,

bestir,

stretch out their feline length

luxuriously,

then slink

in gliding,

hurrying,

scurrying

flight

to some dark

assignation

in the night.

Here where the hermit watched his apple trees

White plum blooms hazed the clearing in a twist

Of smoke upcurled, and higher, like a mist

Upon the hillside, vagrant in the breeze

A band of tramping trilliums, at their ease,

Had pitched their tents to loll beneath the sun

In gypsy festival to sway and run

And wander through the woodlands as they please.

The sun went down, a wayward wind swift blew

The plum-tree smoke far in the shadowed wood;

The trilliums to their darkening tents withdrew

Until the clearing emptied and there stood

Only deep silence watching earth and stone,

Deep silence left unutterably alone.

I heard you whistling cheerily,

Whistling near the lilac tree,

And I wondered to myself,

Who’s the madcap, spirit, elf,

Whistling with abandon, joy,

Whistling like a school-free boy;

Then I saw you, slate-gray cat bird,

You who always have the last word,

And I stopped to hear your song,

Hear you warble notes, prolong

The warble, hold it in your throat,

Till out it comes a different note,

And then you whistle,

Pause until

Light as thistle

Floats the trill:

Then the warble once again

But the warble’s not the same.

Then a slow note,

Deep and slow

Floats the way the others go

Like the echo from a bell

Hidden in a fairy dell,

Struck centuries ago.

And now your throat that caught the sound

Vibrates the rhythm newly found,

You’re the master of the air,

Vagrant singer without care,

Singing, oh so carelessly,

Singing, oh so endlessly,

Singing, oh so rapturously,

Life embodied melody.

That’s your mating song

When you prolong

The warble and the whistle

Light as thistle;

That’s the side

You turn towards your bride—

Old Robert Browning said,

He of the leonine head,

The meanest of God’s creatures

Boasts two features

One to face the world with—

One to face his love with—

And that’s the face

With which you grace

The mating time,

O song sublime!

But what of the other face?

Alas, a sorry case;

The song you sing when you’re perturbed

Should undoubtedly be curbed,

But then, from it you gained your name,

And sadder still, you owe your fame

To singing plaintively “Meow,”

But that’s the world’s way, anyhow!

Beauty awakes,

Beauty awakes!

See how the artist Autumn shakes

The colours of the spectrum on the hills,

How lavishly he spills

His tubes of red and brown and gold

And bold, bold,

He smears the canvas with Tom Thomson’s brush,

And with his passion

Does he fashion

As if he heard the rush

Of the cold wind of winter in his ears

And the same fears

That chilled the heart of Keats bid him make haste,

For all must waste

And die

With the cry

Of the cold wind of winter.

The ancient and the deep, green wood

Hems the house with a high wall of silence

Spills a flood,

An avalanche of rushing green

That from the height

Of the half-seen sky,

The far-off light,

Flows with unceasing verdure

To earth’s sanctuary;

Building a barrier to the summer heat

That with incessant beat

And pipe of shrill cicadas

Storms without hope

The ancient and gray pillared wood

Hemming the house with a high wall of silence.

On sunny banks in springtime

Their faces shine star-white,

Whoever finds hepaticas

Has touched the stars of night.

Whoever finds hepaticas

When Spring goes by his door

Lives in a lost ecstasy

Is haunted evermore.

The geese

flying northward

daub

upon the clean

white slate of sky

with sprawling brush

of shimmering wings

a whirring blob

of black

that overhead becomes

a slim, swift triangle

that sings

one single note of music

in ecstasy

erratic as the spring

but beating,

beating

with the thrill

and pulse of life

until the sponge

of distance

rubs,

blurs,

dims

and finally

erases,

wipes the sky’s slate

white again.

Three sisters kept the village store—

One of those places where the lore

And gossip of the countryside

Is told nightly by men astride

A barrel. ’Twas the meeting place

For the people of the neighbourhood.

For many years the shop has stood

And borne the buffet of the wind

Marked as a man who’s gravely sinned.

A pine tree, planted years ago,

Has climbed above the roof, to grow

And cover all the house with shade.

One sister, timidly afraid,

Ran away with a city man,

Such is life since the world began.

Her sisters said she lived in sin.

Round the village many a chin

Fell down and gaped with wonderment

And feigned surprise the night she went.

The other two remained to pray,

The jet black hair soon turned to gray.

They went about with downcast eyes

And furtive whispers; timid sighs

Were heard from them as they tended store

Where the bell still tinkled above the door.

One of the others soon began

“To see things,” ran away in fright

At the least sound, had to have light

In her room or she could not sleep.

A slow lethargy began to creep

Through her limbs, seized her in its grip

Until her mind commenced to slip.

The mad-house held her finally

And only one remained of three.

One day as I walked the village street,

Before the store was a whole fleet

Of farmers’ rigs; a car with cross

Told the tale of the final loss.

And now the store is shuttered and closed—

Life from its door has been deposed;

Only the pine tree rears its head,

Whispers low for the sisters dead.

The shutters rattle and weirdly sway

And I have heard the villagers say

Steps are sometimes heard on the stair

And a voice will cry, “Where, oh where?”

Then there’s silence, nothing stirs,

Only a night hawk eerily whirrs,

A bat goes by in phantom flight,

The house is wrapped in deepest night

And then the voice will cry once more,

The bell will tinkle above the door,

Hands will fumble and try the lock,

Softly, softly will come a knock—

No answer—quiet within, without,

A faltering step that turns about.

High in the blue Laurentians dwelt John Ridd,

A man of great physique and ponderous bulk

Who held his car upon the rutty roads

By force of his brute strength, and if there was

At any time a doubt of Darwin’s theory

Here in his flesh was proof personified.

The land he farmed sloped to the shore of a lake

And by its edge a little timbered house

Turned two dull eyes, an open gaping mouth

To watch the waves unwearying beat the shore.

The unsecluded swimming of the stars

At night and vigilant Borealis

Illuminate the heavens with darting beam,

Turning great searchlights in his sweeping quest

To spot some furtive wanderer from afar.

The land was John Ridd’s soul, his every aim

To make it bear and burgeon fruitfully.

Each year the waiting womb received the seed,

Each year the fertile mother swift conceived,

Each year she lay in labour to beget

Such children as would please her master’s eye,

The ripening corn that rippled in the wind,

The golden wheat bound up like golden hair,

The ruddy apples ripening on the trees

And all the riches that the harvest brings.

At first this pleased and satisfied his heart

But as the years went on he felt a lack,

A need for someone else to share his home

And bear him children like the fruitful earth;

And with the thought was born desire that grew

And growing banished from his seething brain

All other thought except that he must act.

And so John Ridd went courting Mary Stone

Whose name belied the frailty of her form,

The muted mellow voice, laughing but seldom,

The haunting eyes that gazed on a lovely world

And looked upon John Ridd, then pausing, wondered,

Then looked again and in that look were lost.

Like a wind from the hills that blows upon the corn

And bends it to its will tempestuous

So stormed his love the granary of her heart,

Broke all the barriers down and bore her off

Triumphant, helpless as a little child.

Years passed and with each year the pregnant soil

Brought forth anew its teeming progeny

But Mary’s womb was barren as her name;

No child had come to consummate their love.

And John Ridd looked at her enflamed with hate,

To have his wish so thwarted brought contempt,

His will to have his own seed work the land

He loved with every fibre of his heart.

His voice was harsh and Mary cringed in fear,

He blamed her for the lack of daughters, sons,

His taunting words consumed her like a fire

That burned relentlessly unquenched by tears

And her eyes were the eyes of a hunted beast

Whose agony aghasts the shuddering wood.

One April when the whistling blue-birds flew

Along the gray stump-fences’ zig-zag trail,

Raccoons were wailing in the midnight wood

And bloodroot caught the colour of the stars,

There came to John Ridd’s farm as hired man,

Jim Tophet, young, fair-haired, with eyes as blue

As the backs of those same blue-birds flying by,

Who worked with Ridd amongst the fields all day

Turning at night with unreluctant step

To the little house for supper and to sleep.

To Mary with the miracle of spring

There came new life, she bloomed and woke again

With burgeoning bud and blossom, flying bird,

And Tophet’s eyes met hers and held her glance

And spirit spoke to spirit, youth to youth.

But John Ridd taunted her anew and shame

Mantled her cheeks while Tophet’s eyes blazed wrath

And smouldering ire at all the pity of it.

And pity turned to love the times she shrank

And cringed beneath the bully’s withering words.

There came the day when Mary was with child

And John Ridd laughed exultant, rubbed his hands,

Seeing a son beside him in the fields

Who’d follow in his footsteps when old age

Had tied him tired and helpless in his chair

To smoke and yarn and dream beside the stove.

And Tophet’s eyes met Mary’s, held her glance,

And John Ridd watching them, suspicion sowed

The seed that grew into an evil flower

Whose roots reached down their tiny tentacles,

Enmeshed his brain, devouring it by slow

Incessant feeding till the parasite

Expelled from it all thought except the one

That Tophet was the father of the child.

He nursed this thought that stabbed him like a knife,

Sadistically he turned it in the wound

Until his mind could bear the pain no more

And then the storm broke loose. In sudden wrath

He struck at Mary standing by the stove

And like a tree the woodsman swiftly fells,

She trembled, tottered, crashed upon the floor.

And John Ridd laughed a mad and mirthless laugh.

His little eyes were cunning as a cat’s

That stalks its prey and follows silently,

And so he watched Jim Tophet where be bent

Over the form of Mary, muttering

Mad words of endearment, fatal and hopeless.

With a light step for all his weight he moved

Across the room to seize the waiting axe,

Turning about on stealthy, silent feet

He sped to where Jim Tophet murmuring lay.

Raising it high the blade glinted a moment

Then fell with all the fury of his arm

And set a fearful silence on his lips.

And John Ridd laughed a mad and mirthless laugh,

Stormed from the house and banged the door behind

As though the banging door would close the past

And shut it from his vision and his thought.

For so men sometimes hope to hide their deeds

Shutting them up behind locked doors and iron walls

Till Fate, the prowler, with unerring ear,

Detects the combination, springs the lock,

Throws wide the door and lets the daylight in.

Raving he ran to the high and solemn hills

Who closed their arms about him, quieted him.

Only a far faint echo came of his mad voice

Then it too died and silence’ gentle cloak

Slid from the hills and wrapped the little farm

As softly fall the heavy flakes of snow

And footsteps soon are muffled, voices die

And earth’s a vacuum white and desolate.

And when the neighbours found them Mary moved

But Tophet was beyond the help of man,

And John Ridd’s fleshless bones were later found

Broken upon the rocks where he had fallen

Or cast himself demented from the cliff.

And Mary lay for many days and nights

In that dim land between this life and death

Where voices call, faint shadows come and go,

The past and all the present merged and lost

In a dread nothingness, in nothingness the soul.

Slowly she came from darkness and the mist

And as she stirred she felt the stir of life

Within, giving her hope to live and faith,

Courage to face the world, begin anew

The battle for herself and for her child.

    Lincoln was a young man

    In New Salem days,

    Lincoln was a tall man

    Born to country ways.

    Lincoln found Anne Rutledge,

    Fell in love with her,

    Beautiful Anne Rutledge

    Made his pulses stir.

    Beautiful Anne Rutledge

    Dreamed a dream and died,

    “Oh, my heart lies with her,”

    Broken Lincoln cried.

Anne Rutledge, Anne Rutledge,

Was it you gave Lincoln his fame?

Was it born the day that you died,

When he cried, “O my Anne,

The snow and the rain will fall

On your grave, and it breaks my heart,

Breaks my heart”?

The ways of God are strange

And move in a way that passeth understanding,

That passeth the mind of man.

But slowly, surely

He works his plan.

Miracles are done

Under the sun.

On the strong anvil of years

Man’s soul is beaten and shaped,

You can hear the hiss of his tears,

As the great blacksmith works,

Pounds with mighty laughter,

To shake the heavens’ rafter,

And then the moment after

With slow strokes and sure

He tempers mirth with sorrow,

Lest the morrow

See man a laughing, useless thing,

To be flung aside like a broken spring.—

And last, the finishing strokes

Swift and faint and light

Soft as the fall of night,

Soft as the fall of night.—

The ways of God are strange

And move in a way that passeth understanding

That passeth the mind of man.

“The way of a man with a maid”

So it was said,

In the day of the prophet.

The way of a maid with a man,

So it began.

And a seed was sown in rugged soil

And after much toil

It burgeoned and grew

And the winds blew

And the rains fell

And cast their spell

And the seed was turned to a mighty tree

And its branches spread

Broad overhead

Making a shelter over the land

For the time of storm.

And then like a stroke

Of lightning, the tempest broke

And beat on the tree,

But steadfastly

It stood on the hill

And swayed and tossed,

But nothing was lost,

For the roots were strong,

The roots were long

And clenched in the soil.

And the storm subsided, the heavens cleared

And the tree still stood, but was gnarled and seared.

    Anne Rutledge, Anne Rutledge,

    Did you know, did you dream

    When you bade farewell,

    That you’d be the urge, the gleam

    That would hold your man to his purpose?

    Who can tell?

For the ways of God are passing strange

And man dreams

And plans,

And God fans

The spark, and the flame shoots up

And consumes his soul,

And he sees his goal

Far ahead in the light of the skies,

And he follows and stumbles and follows

Until he dies,

Until he dies.

O beautiful Anne Rutledge,

Lincoln’s fame is your fame,

Your name linked with his name.—

Dreamers together

You dreamed a dream,

You were the source,

Lincoln the stream

That forced the way to fulfilment.—

O beautiful Anne Rutledge,

Lincoln’s fame is your fame

Your name linked with his name

Forever.