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IF THE BOOK IS UNDER COPYRIGHT IN YOUR COUNTRY, DO NOT DOWNLOAD OR REDISTRIBUTE THIS FILE. _Title:_ Under the Sun _Date of first publication:_ 1939 _Author:_ Arthur Bourinot (1893-1969) _Date first posted:_ October 20, 2026 _Date last updated:_ October 20, 2026 Faded Page eBook #20261040 This eBook was produced by: John Routh, Cindy Beyer & the online Distributed Proofreaders Canada team at https://www.pgdpcanada.net [Cover Illustration] =BY= =Arthur S. Bourinot= _Laurentian Lyrics_ _Poems_ _Lyrics from the Hills_ _Pattering Feet_ _Ottawa Lyrics and Verses for Children_ _Sonnets in Memory of My Mother_ _Selected Poems_ _La Salle_ _Rhymes of the French Regime_ _Eleven Poems_ _Under the Sun_ UNDER THE SUN =POEMS= BY ARTHUR S. BOURINOT [Illustration] TORONTO: THE MACMILLAN COMPANY OF CANADA LIMITED, AT ST. MARTIN’S HOUSE 1939 “_And there is no new thing under the sun. . . . When_ _I returned and saw all the oppressions that are done_ _under the sun_. . . .”—Ecclesiastes. Copyright, Canada, 1939 BY ARTHUR S. BOURINOT All rights reserved—no part of this book may be reproduced in any form without permission in writing from the publishers, except by a reviewer who wishes to quote brief passages in connection with a review written for inclusion in a magazine or newspaper. PRINTED IN CANADA T. H. BEST PRINTING CO., LIMITED TORONTO, ONT. To My Wife ACKNOWLEDGMENTS “Autumn”, “River by Night”, and “Maples” have appeared in _Saturday Night_. “Nicolas Gatineau”, “Midas’ Daughter” and “Hepaticas” in the _Canadian Poetry Magazine_, “Outcasts” in _Canadian Forum_, “Lincoln and Anne Rutledge” in _Dalhousie Review_, “Train at Night” in _Canadian Bookman_, “Autumn”, “Train at Night” and “Maples” in the anthology _New Harvesting_. CONTENTS PAGE Nicolas Gatineau - - - - 1 Outcasts - - - - - - 3 Antoine Daniel - - - - - 4 Machinery - - - - - - 10 Not Long Ago - - - - - 14 Rink, Radio City - - - - 16 Profligate- - - - - - 17 Midas’ Daughter- - - - - 18 Transients- - - - - - 20 A Beech Tree - - - - - 23 Place Names - - - - - 24 François Bigot - - - - - 25 Trucks - - - - - - 30 Wrestling Match- - - - - 31 A Death - - - - - - 33 Voyageurs Adieu- - - - - 35 The Little Inn at Bethlehem - - 37 Mr. Wander- - - - - - 39 I Shall Take My Skis- - - - 41 Train at Night - - - - - 45 Autumn - - - - - - 46 Maples - - - - - - 47 River By Night - - - - - 48 The Moon is a Great Bonfire - - 49 Snow Shadows - - - - - 50 White Trilliums- - - - - 51 Cat Bird - - - - - - 52 October in Canada - - - - 54 Summer Woods - - - - - 55 Hepaticas - - - - - - 56 Flying Geese - - - - - 57 Three Sisters - - - - - 58 John Ridd - - - - - - 60 Lincoln and Anne Rutledge- - - 66 UNDER THE SUN NICOLAS GATINEAU 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. OUTCASTS 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. ANTOINE DANIEL 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. MACHINERY _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._ NOT LONG AGO 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. RINK, RADIO CITY 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. PROFLIGATE 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. MIDAS’ DAUGHTER 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. TRANSIENTS 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. A BEECH TREE 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. PLACE NAMES 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. FRANÇOIS BIGOT 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. TRUCKS 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. WRESTLING MATCH 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. A DEATH 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. VOYAGEURS ADIEU 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 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. MR. WANDER 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 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. TRAIN AT NIGHT 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. AUTUMN 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. MAPLES 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. RIVER BY NIGHT 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 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. SNOW SHADOWS 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. WHITE TRILLIUMS 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. CAT BIRD 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! OCTOBER IN CANADA 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. SUMMER WOODS 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. HEPATICAS 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. FLYING GEESE 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 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. JOHN RIDD 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 AND ANNE RUTLEDGE 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. TRANSCRIBER NOTES Misspelled words and printer errors have been corrected. Where multiple spellings occur, majority use has been employed. Punctuation has been maintained except where obvious printer errors occur. [The end of _Under the Sun_, by Arthur Bourinot.]