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-                    A CANADIAN CALENDAR: XII LYRICS
-
-
-
-
-This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost
-no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it
-under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this
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-
-
-
-Title: A Canadian Calendar: XII Lyrics
-Author: Francis Sherman
-Release Date: June 02, 2013 [EBook #39796]
-Language: English
-Character set encoding: UTF-8
-
-
-*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A CANADIAN CALENDAR: XII
-LYRICS ***
-
-
-
+*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 39796 ***
 
 Produced by Al Haines.
 
@@ -744,378 +721,4 @@ _XII. LYRICS: A LIST._
                      privately printed in Havana is
                      issued at Christmastide M.C.M.
 
-
-
-
-
-
-*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A CANADIAN CALENDAR: XII LYRICS
-***
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+*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 39796 ***
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-                    A CANADIAN CALENDAR: XII LYRICS
-
-
-
-
-This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost
-no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it
-under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this
-eBook or online at http://www.gutenberg.org/license.
-
-
-
-Title: A Canadian Calendar: XII Lyrics
-Author: Francis Sherman
-Release Date: June 02, 2013 [EBook #39796]
-Language: English
-Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1
-
-
-*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A CANADIAN CALENDAR: XII
-LYRICS ***
-
-
-
-
-Produced by Al Haines.
-
-
-                               A CANADIAN
-                               CALENDAR:
-                               XII LYRICS
-
-
-                            Francis Sherman
-
-
-
-                               HABANA:MCM
-
-
-
-
-                                  _To_
-                               _F. H. D._
-
-
-
-
-_XII. LYRICS: A LIST._
-
-      I. IN THE NORTH.
-     II. A ROAD SONG IN MAY.
-    III. THE LANDSMAN.
-     IV. THE GHOST.
-      V. A SONG IN AUGUST.
-     VI. TO AUTUMN.
-    VII. THREE GREY DAYS.
-   VIII. THE WATCH.
-     IX. THE SEEKERS.
-      X. FELLOWSHIP.
-     XI. THE LODGER.
-    XII. MARCH WIND.
-
-
-
-
-                           I. _IN THE NORTH._
-
-
-    Come, let us go and be glad again together
-    Where of old our eyes were opened and we knew that we were free!
-    Come, for it is April, and her hands have loosed the tether
-    That has bound for long her children.--who her children more
-            than we?
-
-    Hark! hear you not how the strong waters thunder
-    Down through the alders with the word they have to bring?
-    Even now they win the meadow and the withered turf is under,
-    And, above, the willows quiver with foreknowledge of the spring.
-
-    Yea, they come, and joy in coming: for the giant hills have sent
-            them.--
-    The hills that guard the portal where the South has built her
-            throne:
-    Unloitering their course is,--can wayside pools content them,
-    Who were born where old pine forests for the sea forever moan?
-
-    And they, behind the hills, where forever bloom the flowers,
-    So they ever know the worship of the re-arisen Earth?
-    Do their hands ever clasp such a happiness as ours,
-    Now the waters foam about us and the grasses have their birth?
-
-    Fair is their land,--yea fair beyond all dreaming,--
-    With its sun upon the roses and its long summer day;
-    Yet surely they must envy us our vision of the gleaming
-    Of our lady's white throat as she comes her ancient way.
-
-    For their year is never April--Oh what were Time without her!
-    Yea, the drifted snows may cover us, yet shall we not complain:
-    Knowing well our Lady April--all her raiment blown about her--
-    Will return with many kisses for our unremembered pain!
-
-
-
-
-                       II. _A ROAD SONG IN MAY._
-
-    O come!  Is it not surely May?
-    The year is at its poise today.
-    Northward, I hear the distant beat
-    Of Spring's irrevocable feet:
-    Tomorrow June will have her way.
-
-    O tawny waters, flecked with sun,
-    Come: for your labours all are done.
-    The grey snow fadeth from the hills;
-    And toward the sound of waking mills
-    Swing the brown rafts in, one by one.
-
-    O bees among the willow-blooms,
-    Forget your empty waxen rooms
-    Awhile, and share our golden hours!
-    Will they not come, the later flowers,
-    With their old colours and perfumes?
-
-    O wind that bloweth from the west,
-    Is not this morning road the best?
-    --Let us go hand in hand, as free
-    And glad as little children be
-    That follow some long-dreamed-of quest!
-
-
-
-
-                          III. _THE LANDSMAN._
-
-    "It well may be just as you say,
-    Will Carver, that your tales are true;
-    Yet think what I must put away,
-    Will Carver, if sail with you."
-
-    "If you should sail with me (the wind
-    Is west, the tide's at full, my men!)
-    The things that you have left behind
-    Will be as nothing to you then."
-
-    "Inland, it's June!  And birds sing
-    Among the wooded hills, I know;
-    Between green fields, unhastening,
-    The Nashwaak's shadowed waters flow.
-
-    "What know you of such things as these
-    Who have the grey sea at your door,--
-    Whose path is as the strong winds please
-    Beyond this narrow strip of shore?"
-
-    "_Your_ fields and woods!  Now, answer me:
-    Up what green path have your feet run
-    So wide as mine, when the deep sea
-    Lies all-uncovered to the sun?
-
-    And down the hollows of what hills
-    Have you gone--half so glad of heart
-    As you shall be when our sail fills
-    And the great waves ride far apart?"
-
-    "O! half your life is good to live,
-    Will Carver; yet, if I should go,
-    What are the things that you can give
-    Lest I regret the things I know!
-
-    "Lest I desire the old life's way?
-    The noises of the crowded town?
-    The busy streets, where, night and day,
-    The traffickers go up and down?"
-
-    "What can I give for these?  Alas,
-    That all unchanged your path must be!
-    Strange lights shall open as we pass
-    And alien wakes traverse the sea;
-
-    "Your ears shall hear (across your sleep)
-    New hails, remote, disquieted,
-    For not a hand-breadth of the deep
-    But has to soothe some restless dead.
-
-    "These things shall be.  And other things,
-    I think, not quite so sad as these!
-    --Know you the song the rigging sings
-    When up the opal-tinted seas
-
-    "The slow south-wind comes amorously?
-    The sudden gleam of some far sail
-    Going the same glad way as we,
-    Hastily, lest the good wind fail?
-
-    "The dreams that come (so strange, so fair!)
-    When all your world lies well within
-    The moving magic circle where
-    The sea ends and the skies begin?"......
-
-    ......"What port is that, so far astern,
-    Will Carver?  And how many miles
-    Shall we have run ere the tide turn?
-    --And is it far to the farthest isles?"
-
-
-
-
-                            IV. _THE GHOST._
-
-    Just where the field becomes the wood
-    I thought I saw again
-    Her old remembered face--made grey
-    As it had known the rain.
-
-    The trees grow thickly there; no place
-    Has half so many trees;
-    And hunted things elude one there
-    Like ancient memories.
-
-    The path itself is hard to find,
-    And slopes up suddenly;
-    --In the old days it was a path
-    None knew so well as we.
-
-    The path slopes upward, till it leaves
-    The great trees far behind;
-    --I met her once where the slender birch
-    Grow up to meet the wind.
-
-    Where the poplars quiver endlessly
-    And the falling leaves are grey,
-    I saw her come, and I was glad
-    That she had learned the way.
-
-    She paused a moment where the path
-    Grew sunlighted and broad;
-    Within her hair slept all the gold
-    Of all the golden-rod.
-
-    And then the wood closed in on her.
-    And my hand found her hand;
-    She had no words to say, yet I
-    Was quick to understand.
-
-    I dared to look in her two eyes;
-    They too, I thought, were grey:
-    But no sun shone, and all around
-    Great, quiet shadows lay.
-
-    Yet, as I looked, I surely knew
-    That they knew nought of tears,--
-    But this was very long ago,
-    --A year, perhaps ten years.
-
-    All this was long ago.  Today,
-    Her hand met not with mine;
-    And where the pathway widened out
-    I saw no gold hair shine.
-
-    I had a weary, fruitless search,
-    --I think that her wan face
-    Was but the face of one asleep
-    Who dreams she knew this place.
-
-
-
-
-                         V. _A SONG IN AUGUST._
-
-    O gold is the West and gold the river-waters
-    Washing past the sides of my yellow birch canoe,
-    Gold are the great drops that fall from my paddle,
-    The far-off hills cry a golden word of you.
-
-    I can almost see you!  Where its own shadow
-    Creeps down the hill's side, gradual and slow.
-    There you stand waiting; the goldenrod and thistle
-    Glad of you beside them--the fairest thing they know.
-
-    Down the worn foot-path, the tufted pines behind you,
-    Grey sheep between,--unfrightened as you pass;
-    Swift through the sun-glow, I to my loved one
-    Come, striving hard against the long trailing grass.
-
-    Soon shall I ground on the shining gravel-reaches:
-    Through the thick alders you will break your way:
-    Then your hand in mine, and our path is on the waters,--
-    For us the long shadows and the end of day.
-
-    Whither shall we go?  See, over to the westward,
-    An hour of precious gold standeth still for you and me;
-    Still gleams the grain, all yellow on the uplands;
-    West is it, or East, O Love that you would be?
-
-    West now, or East?  For, underneath the moonrise,
-    Also it is fair; and where the reeds are tall,
-    And the only little noise is the sound of quiet waters,
-    Heavy, like the rain, we shall hear the duck-oats fall.
-
-    And perhaps we shall see, rising slowly from the driftwood,
-    A lone crane go over to its inland nest:
-    Or a dark line of ducks will come in across the islands
-    And sail overhead to the marshes of the west.
-
-    Now a little wind rises up for our returning;
-    Silver grows the East as the West grows grey;
-    Shadows on the waters, shaded are the meadows,
-    The firs on the hillside--naught so dark as they.
-
-    Yet we have known the light!--Was ever such an August?
-    Your hand leave mine; and the new stars gleam
-    As we separately go to our dreams of opened heaven,--
-    The golden dawn shall tell you that you did not dream.
-
-
-
-
-                            VI. _TO AUTUMN._
-
-    How shall I greet thee, Autumn? with loud praise
-    And joyous song and wild, tumultuous laughter?
-    Or unrestrained tears?
-    Shall I behold only the scarlet haze
-    Of these thy days
-    That come to crown this best of all the years?
-    Or shall I hear, even now, those sad hours chime--
-    Those unborn hours that surely follow after
-    The shedding of thy last-relinquished leaf--
-    Till I, too, learn the strength and change of time
-    Who am made one with grief?
-
-    For now thou comest not as thou of old
-    Wast wont to come; and now mine old desire
-    Is sated not at all
-    With sunset-visions of thy splendid gold
-    Or fold on fold
-    Of the stained clouds thou hast for coronal.
-    Still all these ways and things are thine, and still
-    Before thine altar burneth the ancient fire;
-    The blackness of the pines is still the same,
-    And the same peace broodeth behind the hill
-    Where the old maples flame.
-
-    I, counting these, behold no change; and yet,
-    To-day, I deem, they know not me for lover,
-    Nor live because of me.
-    And yesterday, was it not thou I met,
-    Thy warm lips wet
-    And purpled with wild grapes crushed wantonly,
-    And yellow wind-swept wheat bound round thy hair,
-    Thy brawn breast half set free and half draped over
-    With long green leaves of corn?  Was it not thou,
-    Thy feet unsandaled, and thy shoulders bare
-    As the gleaned fields are now?
-
-    Yea, Autumn, it was thou, and glad was I
-    To meet thee and caress thee for an hour
-    And fancy I was thine;
-    For then I had not learned all things must die
-    Under the sky,--
-    That everywhere (a flaw in the design!)
-    Decay crept in, unquickening the mass,--
-    Creed, empire, man-at-arms, or stone, or flower.
-    In my unwisdom then, I had not read
-    The message writ across Earth's face, alas,
-    But scanned the sun instead.
-
-    For all men sow; and then it happeneth--
-    When harvest time is come, and thou are season--
-    Each goeth forth to reap.
-    "This cometh unto him" (perchance one saith)
-    "Who laboreth:
-    This is my wage: I will lie down and sleep."--
-    He maketh no oblation unto Earth.
-    Another, in his heart divine unreason,
-    Seeing his fields lie barren in the sun,
-    Crieth, "O fool!  Behold the little worth
-    Of that thy toil hath won!"
-
-    And so one sleepeth, dreaming of no prayer;
-    And so one lieth sleepless, till thou comest
-    To bid his cursing cease;
-    Then, in his dreams, envieth the other's share.
-    Whilst, otherwhere,
-    Thou showest still thy perfect face of peace,
-    O Autumn, unto men of alien lands!
-    Along their paths a little while thou roamest.
-    A little while they deem thee queenliest,
-    And good the laying-on of thy warm hands,--
-    And then, they, too, would rest.
-
-    They, too, would only rest, forgetting thee!
-    But I, who am grown the wiser for thy loving,
-    Never may thee deny!
-    And when the last child hath forsaken me,
-    And quietly
-    Men go about the house wherein I lie,
-    I shall lie glad, feeling across my face
-    Thy damp and clinging hair, and thy hands moving
-    To find my wasted hands that wait for thine
-    Beneath white cloths; and, for one whisper's space,
-    Autumn, thy lips on mine!
-
-
-
-
-                        VII. _THREE GREY DAYS._
-
-    If she would come, now, and say, _What will you Lover?_--
-    She who has the fairest gifts of all the earth to give--
-    Think you I should ask some tremendous thing to prove her,
-    Her life, say, and all her love, so long as she might live?
-    Should I touch her hair? her hands? her garments, even?
-    Nay! for such rewards the gods their own good time have set!
-    Once, these were _all_ mine: the least, poor one was heaven:
-    Now, lest she remember, I pray that she forget.
-
-    Merely should I ask--ah! she would not refuse them
-    Who still seems very kind when I meet with her in dreams--
-    Only three of our old days, and--should she help to choose them
-    Would the first not be in April, beside the sudden
-            streams?......
-    Once, upon a morning, up the path that we had taken,
-    We saw Spring come where the willow-buds are grey;
-    Heard the high hills, as with tread of armies, shaken;
-    Felt the strong sun--O, the glory of that day!
-
-    And then--what? one afternoon of quiet summer weather
-    O, woodlands and meadow-lands along the blue St. John,
-    My birch finds a path--though your rafts lie close together--
-    Then O! what starry miles before the grey o' the dawn!........
-    I have met the new day, among the misty islands,
-    Come with whine of saw-mills and whirr of hidden wings,
-    Gleam of dewy cobwebs, smell of grassy highlands.--
-    Ah! the blood grows young again thinking of these things.
-
-    Then, last and best of all!  Though all else were found hollow
-    Would Time not send a little space, before the Autumn's close,
-    And lead us up the road--the old road we used to follow
-    Among the sunset hills till the Hunter's Moon arise?......
-    Then, Home through the poplar-wood! damp across our faces
-    The grey leaves that fall, the moths that flutter by:
-    Yea! this for me, now, of all old hours and places,
-    To keep when I am dead, Time, until she come to die.
-
-
-
-
-                           VIII. _THE WATCH._
-
-    Are those her feet at last upon the stair?
-    Her trailing garments echoing there?
-    The falling of her hair?
-
-    About a year ago I heard her come,
-    Thus; as a child recalling some
-    Vague memories of home.
-
-    O how the firelight blinded her dear eyes!
-    I saw them open, and grow wise:
-    No questions, no replies.
-
-    And now, tonight, comes the same sound of rain.
-    The wet boughs reach against the pane
-    In the same way, again.
-
-    In the old way I hear the moaning wind
-    Hunt the dead leaves it cannot find,--
-    Blind as the stars are blind.
-
-    --She may come in at midnight, tired and wan,
-    Yet,--what if once again at dawn
-    I wake to find her gone?
-
-
-
-
-                           IX. _THE SEEKERS._
-
-    Is it very long ago things were as they are
-    Now? or was it ever? or is it to be?
-    Was it up this road we came, glad the end was far?
-    Taking comfort each of each, singing cheerily?
-
-    O, the way was good to tread!  Up hill and down;
-    Past the quiet forestlands, by the grassy plains;
-    Here a stony wilderness, there an ancient town,
-    Now the high sun over us, now the driving rains.
-
-    Strange and evil things we met--but what cared we,
-    Strong men and unafraid, ripe for any chance?
-    Battles by the countless score, red blood running free--
-    Soon we learned that all of these were our inheritance.
-
-    Some of us there were that fell: what was that to us?
-    They were weak--we were strong--health we held to yet:
-    Pleasant graves we digged them, we the valorous,--
-    Then to the road again, striving to forget.
-
-    Once again upon the road!  The seasons passed us by--
-    Blood-root and mayflowers, grasses straight and tall,
-    Scarlet banners on the hills, snowdrifts white and high,--
-    One by one we lived them through, giving thanks for all.
-
-    O, the countries that we found in our wandering!
-    Wide seas without a sail, islands fringed with foam,
-    Undiscovered till we came, waiting for their king,--
-    We might tarry but a while, far away from home.
-
-    Far away the home we sought,--soon we must be gone;
-    The old road, the old days, still we clung to those;
-    The dawn came, the noon came, the dusk came, the dawn--
-    Still we kept upon this path long ago we chose.
-
-    *      *      *      *      *
-
-    Was it up this road we came, glad the end was far,
-    Yesterday,--last year--a million years ago?
-    Surely it was morning then: now, the twilight star
-    Hangs above the hidden hills--white and very low.
-
-    Quietly the Earth takes on the hush of things asleep;
-    All the silence of the birds stills the moveless air;
-    --Yet we must not falter now, though the way be steep;
-    Just beyond the turn o' the road,--surely Peace is thee!
-
-
-
-
-                            X. _FELLOWSHIP_.
-
-                                   1.
-
-    At last we reached the pointed firs
-    And rested for a little while;
-    The light of home was in her smile
-    And my cold hand grew warm as her's.
-
-    Behind, across the level snow,
-    We saw the half-moon touch the hill
-    Where we had felt the sunset; still
-    Our feet had many miles to go.
-
-    And now, new little stars were born
-    In the dark hollows of the sky:--
-    Perhaps (she said) lest we should die
-    Of weariness before the morn.
-
-
-                                   2.
-
-    Once, when the year stood still at June,
-    At even we had tarried there
-    Till Dusk came in--her noiseless hair
-    Trailing along a pathway strewn
-
-    With broken cones and year-old things,
-    But now, tonight, it seemed that She
-    Therein abode continually,
-    With weighted feet and folded wings,
-
-    And so we lingered not for dawn
-    To mark the edges of out path;
-    But with such home a blind man hath
-    At midnight, we went groping on.
-
-    --I do not know how many firs
-    We stumbled past in that still wood:
-    Only I know that once we stood
-    Together there--my lips on her's.
-
-
-                                   3.
-
-    Between the midnight and the dawn
-    We came out on the farther side;
-    --What if the wood _was_ dark and wide?
-    Its shadows now here far withdrawn,
-
-    And O the white stars in the sky!
-    And O the glitter of the snow!--
-    Henceforth we know our feet should know
-    Fair ways to travel--she and I--
-
-    For One--Whose shadow is the Night--
-    Unwound them where the Great Bear swung
-    And wide across the darkness flung
-    The ribbons of the Northern Light.
-
-
-
-
-                           XI. _THE LODGER._
-
-    What! and do you find it good,
-    Sitting here alone with me?
-    Hark! the wind goes through the wood
-    And the snow drifts heavily,
-
-    When the morning brings the light
-    How know I you will not say,
-    "What a storm there fell last night,
-    Is the next inn far away?"
-
-    How know I you do not dream
-    Of some country where the grass
-    Grows up tall around the gleam
-    Of the milestones you must pass?
-
-    Even now perhaps you tell
-    (While your hands play through my hair)
-    Every hill, each hidden well,
-    All the pleasant valleys there,
-
-    That before a clear moon shines
-    You will be with them again!
-    --Hear the booming of the pines
-    And the sleet against the pane.
-
-
-                                   2.
-
-    Wake, and look upon the sun,
-    I awoke an hour ago,
-    When the night was hardly done
-    And still fell a little snow,
-
-    Since the hill-tops touched the light
-    Many things have my hands made,
-    Just that you should think them right
-    And be glad that you have stayed.
-
-    --How I worked the while you slept!
-    Scarcely did I dare to sing!
-    All my soul a silence kept--
-    Fearing your awakening.
-
-    Now, indeed, I do not care
-    If you wake; for now the sun
-    Makes the least of all things fair
-    That my poor two hands have done.
-
-
-                                   3.
-
-    No, it is not hard to find.
-    You will know it by the hills--
-    Seven--sloping up behind;
-    By the soft perfume that fills
-
-    (O, the red, red roses there!)
-    Full the narrow path thereto:
-    By the dark pine-forest where
-    Such a little wind breathes through;
-
-    By the way the bend o' the stream
-    Takes the peace that twilight brings:
-    By the sunset, and the gleam
-    Of uncounted swallows' wings.
-
-    --No, indeed, I have not been
-    There: but such dreams I have had!
-    And, when I grow old, the green
-    Leaves will hide me, too, made glad.
-
-    Yes, you must go now, I know.
-    You are sure you understand?
-    --How I wish that I could go
-    Now, and lead you by the hand.
-
-
-
-
-                           XII. _MARCH WIND._
-
-    High above the trees, swinging in across the hills,
-    There's a wide cloud, ominous and slow;
-    And the wind that rushes over sends the little stars to cover
-    And the wavering shadows fade along the snow.
-    Surely on my window (Hark the tumult of the night!)
-    That's a first, fitful drop of scanty rain;
-    And the hillside wakes and quivers with the strength of newborn
-            rivers
-    Come to make our Northland glad and free again.
-
-    O remember how the snow fell the long winter through!
-    Was it yesterday I tied your snowshoes on?
-    All my soul grew wild with yearning for the sight of you
-            returning
-    But I waited all those hours that you were gone,
-    For I watched you from our window through the blurring flakes
-            that fell
-    Till you gained the quiet wood, and then I knew
-    (When our pathways lay together how we revelled in such
-            weather!)
-    That the ancient things I loved would comfort you.
-
-    Now I knew that you would tarry in the shadow of the firs
-    And remember many winters overpast:
-    All the hidden signs I found you of the hiding life around you,
-    Sleeping patient till the year should wake at last.
-    Here a tuft of fern underneath the rounded drift:
-    A rock, there, behind a covered spring;
-    And here, nowhither tending, tracks beginning not nor ending,--
-    Was it bird or shy four-footed furry thing?
-
-    And remember how we followed down the woodman's winding trail!
-    By the axe-strokes ringing louder, one by one,
-    Well we knew that we were nearing now the edges of the
-            clearing,--
-    O the gleam of chips all yellow in the sun!
-    But the twilight fell about us as we watched him at his work;
-    And in the south a sudden moon, hung low,
-    Beckoned us beyond the shadows--down the hill--across the
-            meadows
-    Where our little house loomed dark against the snow.
-
-    And that night, too--remember?--outside our quiet house,
-    Just before the dawn we heard the moaning wind:
-    Only then its wings were weighted with the storm itself created
-    And it hid the very things it came to find.
-    In the morn, when we arose, and looked out across the fields,
-    (Hark the branches! how they shatter overhead!)
-    Seemed it not that Time was sleeping, and the whole wide world
-            was keeping
-    All the silence of the Houses of the dead?
-
-    Ah, but that was long ago!  And tonight the wind foretells
-    (Hark, above the wind, the little laughing rills!)
-    Earth's forgetfulness of sorrow when the dawn shall break
-            tomorrow
-    And lead me to the bases of the hills:
-    To the low southern hills where of old we used to go--
-    (Hark the rumour of ten thousand ancient Springs!)
-    O my love, to thy dark quiet--far beyond our North's mad riot--
-    Do thy new Gods bring remembrance of such things?
-
-
-
-
-                    A Canadian Calendar: XII Lyrics
-                     written by Francis Sherman and
-                     privately printed in Havana is
-                     issued at Christmastide M.C.M.
-
-
-
-
-
-
-*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A CANADIAN CALENDAR: XII LYRICS
-***
-
-
-
-
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+<div>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 39796 ***</div>
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-.. -*- encoding: utf-8 -*-

-

-.. meta::

-   :PG.Id: 39796

-   :PG.Title: A Canadian Calendar: XII Lyrics

-   :PG.Released: 2013-06-02

-   :PG.Rights: Public Domain

-   :PG.Producer: Al Haines

-   :DC.Creator: Francis Sherman

-   :DC.Title: A Canadian Calendar: XII Lyrics

-   :DC.Language: en

-   :DC.Created: 1900

-   :coverpage: images/img-cover.jpg

-

-===============================

-A CANADIAN CALENDAR: XII LYRICS

-===============================

-

-.. clearpage::

-

-.. pgheader::

-

-.. container:: titlepage center white-space-pre-line

-

-   .. class:: x-large

-

-      A CANADIAN

-      CALENDAR:

-      XII LYRICS

-

-   .. vspace:: 2

-

-   .. class:: medium

-

-      Francis Sherman

-

-   .. vspace:: 3

-

-   .. class:: large

-

-      HABANA:MCM 

-

-   .. vspace:: 4

-

-.. container:: dedication center white-space-pre-line

-

-   .. class:: medium

-

-      *To*

-      *F. H. D.*

-

-   .. vspace:: 4

-

-.. class:: noindent large

-

-   *XII. LYRICS: A LIST.*

-

-.. vspace:: 1

-

-.. class:: noindent white-space-pre-line

-

-   I. `IN THE NORTH.`_

-   II. `A ROAD SONG IN MAY.`_

-   III. `THE LANDSMAN.`_

-   IV. `THE GHOST.`_

-   V. `A SONG IN AUGUST.`_

-   VI. `TO AUTUMN.`_

-   VII. `THREE GREY DAYS.`_

-   VIII. `THE WATCH.`_

-   IX. `THE SEEKERS.`_

-   X. `FELLOWSHIP.`_

-   XI. `THE LODGER.`_

-   XII. `MARCH WIND.`_

-

-.. vspace:: 4

-

-.. _`IN THE NORTH.`:

-

-.. class:: center large

-

-   \I. *IN THE NORTH.*

-

-.. vspace:: 2

-

-..

-

-   |  Come, let us go and be glad again together

-   |  Where of old our eyes were opened and we knew that we were free!

-   |  Come, for it is April, and her hands have loosed the tether

-   |  That has bound for long her children.—who her children more than we?

-

-   |  Hark! hear you not how the strong waters thunder

-   |  Down through the alders with the word they have to bring?

-   |  Even now they win the meadow and the withered turf is under,

-   |  And, above, the willows quiver with foreknowledge of the spring.

-

-   |  Yea, they come, and joy in coming: for the giant hills have sent them.—

-   |  The hills that guard the portal where the South has built her throne:

-   |  Unloitering their course is,—can wayside pools content them,

-   |  Who were born where old pine forests for the sea forever moan?

-

-   |  And they, behind the hills, where forever bloom the flowers,

-   |  So they ever know the worship of the re-arisen Earth?

-   |  Do their hands ever clasp such a happiness as ours,

-   |  Now the waters foam about us and the grasses have their birth?

-

-   |  Fair is their land,—yea fair beyond all dreaming,—

-   |  With its sun upon the roses and its long summer day;

-   |  Yet surely they must envy us our vision of the gleaming

-   |  Of our lady's white throat as she comes her ancient way.

-

-   |  For their year is never April—Oh what were Time without her!

-   |  Yea, the drifted snows may cover us, yet shall we not complain:

-   |  Knowing well our Lady April—all her raiment blown about her—

-   |  Will return with many kisses for our unremembered pain!

-

-.. vspace:: 4

-

-.. _`A ROAD SONG IN MAY.`:

-

-.. class:: center large

-

-   \II. *A ROAD SONG IN MAY.*

-

-.. vspace:: 1

-

-..

-

-   |  O come!  Is it not surely May?

-   |  The year is at its poise today.

-   |  Northward, I hear the distant beat

-   |  Of Spring's irrevocable feet:

-   |  Tomorrow June will have her way.

-

-   |  O tawny waters, flecked with sun,

-   |  Come: for your labours all are done.

-   |  The grey snow fadeth from the hills;

-   |  And toward the sound of waking mills

-   |  Swing the brown rafts in, one by one.

-

-   |  O bees among the willow-blooms,

-   |  Forget your empty waxen rooms

-   |  Awhile, and share our golden hours!

-   |  Will they not come, the later flowers,

-   |  With their old colours and perfumes?

-

-   |  O wind that bloweth from the west,

-   |  Is not this morning road the best?

-   |  —Let us go hand in hand, as free

-   |  And glad as little children be

-   |  That follow some long-dreamed-of quest!

-

-.. vspace:: 4

-

-.. _`THE LANDSMAN.`:

-

-.. class:: center large

-

-   \III. *THE LANDSMAN.*

-

-.. vspace:: 1

-

-..

-

-   |  "It well may be just as you say,

-   |  Will Carver, that your tales are true;

-   |  Yet think what I must put away,

-   |  Will Carver, if sail with you."

-

-   |  "If you should sail with me (the wind

-   |  Is west, the tide's at full, my men!)

-   |  The things that you have left behind

-   |  Will be as nothing to you then."

-

-   |  "Inland, it's June!  And birds sing

-   |  Among the wooded hills, I know;

-   |  Between green fields, unhastening,

-   |  The Nashwaak's shadowed waters flow.

-

-   |  "What know you of such things as these

-   |  Who have the grey sea at your door,—

-   |  Whose path is as the strong winds please

-   |  Beyond this narrow strip of shore?"

-

-   |  "*Your* fields and woods!  Now, answer me:

-   |  Up what green path have your feet run

-   |  So wide as mine, when the deep sea

-   |  Lies all-uncovered to the sun?

-

-   |  And down the hollows of what hills

-   |  Have you gone—half so glad of heart

-   |  As you shall be when our sail fills

-   |  And the great waves ride far apart?"

-

-   |  "O! half your life is good to live,

-   |  Will Carver; yet, if I should go,

-   |  What are the things that you can give

-   |  Lest I regret the things I know!

-

-   |  "Lest I desire the old life's way?

-   |  The noises of the crowded town?

-   |  The busy streets, where, night and day,

-   |  The traffickers go up and down?"

-

-   |  "What can I give for these?  Alas,

-   |  That all unchanged your path must be!

-   |  Strange lights shall open as we pass

-   |  And alien wakes traverse the sea;

-

-   |  "Your ears shall hear (across your sleep)

-   |  New hails, remote, disquieted,

-   |  For not a hand-breadth of the deep

-   |  But has to soothe some restless dead.

-

-   |  "These things shall be.  And other things,

-   |  I think, not quite so sad as these!

-   |  —Know you the song the rigging sings

-   |  When up the opal-tinted seas

-

-   |  "The slow south-wind comes amorously?

-   |  The sudden gleam of some far sail

-   |  Going the same glad way as we,

-   |  Hastily, lest the good wind fail?

-

-   |  "The dreams that come (so strange, so fair!)

-   |  When all your world lies well within

-   |  The moving magic circle where

-   |  The sea ends and the skies begin?"......

-

-   |  ......"What port is that, so far astern,

-   |  Will Carver?  And how many miles

-   |  Shall we have run ere the tide turn?

-   |  —And is it far to the farthest isles?"

-

-.. vspace:: 4

-

-.. _`THE GHOST.`:

-

-.. class:: center large

-

-   \IV. *THE GHOST.*

-

-.. vspace:: 1

-

-..

-

-   |  Just where the field becomes the wood

-   |  I thought I saw again

-   |  Her old remembered face—made grey

-   |  As it had known the rain.

-

-   |  The trees grow thickly there; no place

-   |  Has half so many trees;

-   |  And hunted things elude one there

-   |  Like ancient memories.

-

-   |  The path itself is hard to find,

-   |  And slopes up suddenly;

-   |  —In the old days it was a path

-   |  None knew so well as we.

-

-   |  The path slopes upward, till it leaves

-   |  The great trees far behind;

-   |  —I met her once where the slender birch

-   |  Grow up to meet the wind.

-

-   |  Where the poplars quiver endlessly

-   |  And the falling leaves are grey,

-   |  I saw her come, and I was glad

-   |  That she had learned the way.

-

-   |  She paused a moment where the path

-   |  Grew sunlighted and broad;

-   |  Within her hair slept all the gold

-   |  Of all the golden-rod.

-

-   |  And then the wood closed in on her.

-   |  And my hand found her hand;

-   |  She had no words to say, yet I

-   |  Was quick to understand.

-

-   |  I dared to look in her two eyes;

-   |  They too, I thought, were grey:

-   |  But no sun shone, and all around

-   |  Great, quiet shadows lay.

-

-   |  Yet, as I looked, I surely knew

-   |  That they knew nought of tears,—

-   |  But this was very long ago,

-   |  —A year, perhaps ten years.

-

-   |  All this was long ago.  Today,

-   |  Her hand met not with mine;

-   |  And where the pathway widened out

-   |  I saw no gold hair shine.

-

-   |  I had a weary, fruitless search,

-   |  —I think that her wan face

-   |  Was but the face of one asleep

-   |  Who dreams she knew this place.

-

-.. vspace:: 4

-

-.. _`A SONG IN AUGUST.`:

-

-.. class:: center large

-

-   \V. *A SONG IN AUGUST.*

-

-.. vspace:: 1

-

-..

-

-   |  O gold is the West and gold the river-waters

-   |  Washing past the sides of my yellow birch canoe,

-   |  Gold are the great drops that fall from my paddle,

-   |  The far-off hills cry a golden word of you.

-

-   |  I can almost see you!  Where its own shadow

-   |  Creeps down the hill's side, gradual and slow.

-   |  There you stand waiting; the goldenrod and thistle

-   |  Glad of you beside them—the fairest thing they know.

-

-   |  Down the worn foot-path, the tufted pines behind you,

-   |  Grey sheep between,—unfrightened as you pass;

-   |  Swift through the sun-glow, I to my loved one

-   |  Come, striving hard against the long trailing grass.

-

-   |  Soon shall I ground on the shining gravel-reaches:

-   |  Through the thick alders you will break your way:

-   |  Then your hand in mine, and our path is on the waters,—

-   |  For us the long shadows and the end of day.

-

-   |  Whither shall we go?  See, over to the westward,

-   |  An hour of precious gold standeth still for you and me;

-   |  Still gleams the grain, all yellow on the uplands;

-   |  West is it, or East, O Love that you would be?

-

-   |  West now, or East?  For, underneath the moonrise,

-   |  Also it is fair; and where the reeds are tall,

-   |  And the only little noise is the sound of quiet waters,

-   |  Heavy, like the rain, we shall hear the duck-oats fall.

-

-   |  And perhaps we shall see, rising slowly from the driftwood,

-   |  A lone crane go over to its inland nest:

-   |  Or a dark line of ducks will come in across the islands

-   |  And sail overhead to the marshes of the west.

-

-   |  Now a little wind rises up for our returning;

-   |  Silver grows the East as the West grows grey;

-   |  Shadows on the waters, shaded are the meadows,

-   |  The firs on the hillside—naught so dark as they.

-

-   |  Yet we have known the light!—Was ever such an August?

-   |  Your hand leave mine; and the new stars gleam

-   |  As we separately go to our dreams of opened heaven,—

-   |  The golden dawn shall tell you that you did not dream.

-

-.. vspace:: 4

-

-.. _`TO AUTUMN.`:

-

-.. class:: center large

-

-   \VI. *TO AUTUMN.*

-

-.. vspace:: 1

-

-..

-

-   |  How shall I greet thee, Autumn? with loud praise

-   |  And joyous song and wild, tumultuous laughter?

-   |  Or unrestrained tears?

-   |  Shall I behold only the scarlet haze

-   |  Of these thy days

-   |  That come to crown this best of all the years?

-   |  Or shall I hear, even now, those sad hours chime—

-   |  Those unborn hours that surely follow after

-   |  The shedding of thy last-relinquished leaf—

-   |  Till I, too, learn the strength and change of time

-   |  Who am made one with grief?

-

-   |  For now thou comest not as thou of old

-   |  Wast wont to come; and now mine old desire

-   |  Is sated not at all

-   |  With sunset-visions of thy splendid gold

-   |  Or fold on fold

-   |  Of the stained clouds thou hast for coronal.

-   |  Still all these ways and things are thine, and still

-   |  Before thine altar burneth the ancient fire;

-   |  The blackness of the pines is still the same,

-   |  And the same peace broodeth behind the hill

-   |  Where the old maples flame.

-

-   |  I, counting these, behold no change; and yet,

-   |  To-day, I deem, they know not me for lover,

-   |  Nor live because of me.

-   |  And yesterday, was it not thou I met,

-   |  Thy warm lips wet

-   |  And purpled with wild grapes crushed wantonly,

-   |  And yellow wind-swept wheat bound round thy hair,

-   |  Thy brawn breast half set free and half draped over

-   |  With long green leaves of corn?  Was it not thou,

-   |  Thy feet unsandaled, and thy shoulders bare

-   |  As the gleaned fields are now?

-

-   |  Yea, Autumn, it was thou, and glad was I

-   |  To meet thee and caress thee for an hour

-   |  And fancy I was thine;

-   |  For then I had not learned all things must die

-   |  Under the sky,—

-   |  That everywhere (a flaw in the design!)

-   |  Decay crept in, unquickening the mass,—

-   |  Creed, empire, man-at-arms, or stone, or flower.

-   |  In my unwisdom then, I had not read

-   |  The message writ across Earth's face, alas,

-   |  But scanned the sun instead.

-

-   |  For all men sow; and then it happeneth—

-   |  When harvest time is come, and thou are season—

-   |  Each goeth forth to reap.

-   |  "This cometh unto him" (perchance one saith)

-   |  "Who laboreth:

-   |  This is my wage: I will lie down and sleep."—

-   |  He maketh no oblation unto Earth.

-   |  Another, in his heart divine unreason,

-   |  Seeing his fields lie barren in the sun,

-   |  Crieth, "O fool!  Behold the little worth

-   |  Of that thy toil hath won!"

-

-   |  And so one sleepeth, dreaming of no prayer;

-   |  And so one lieth sleepless, till thou comest

-   |  To bid his cursing cease;

-   |  Then, in his dreams, envieth the other's share.

-   |  Whilst, otherwhere,

-   |  Thou showest still thy perfect face of peace,

-   |  O Autumn, unto men of alien lands!

-   |  Along their paths a little while thou roamest.

-   |  A little while they deem thee queenliest,

-   |  And good the laying-on of thy warm hands,—

-   |  And then, they, too, would rest.

-

-   |  They, too, would only rest, forgetting thee!

-   |  But I, who am grown the wiser for thy loving,

-   |  Never may thee deny!

-   |  And when the last child hath forsaken me,

-   |  And quietly

-   |  Men go about the house wherein I lie,

-   |  I shall lie glad, feeling across my face

-   |  Thy damp and clinging hair, and thy hands moving

-   |  To find my wasted hands that wait for thine

-   |  Beneath white cloths; and, for one whisper's space,

-   |  Autumn, thy lips on mine!

-

-.. vspace:: 4

-

-.. _`THREE GREY DAYS.`:

-

-.. class:: center large

-

-   \VII. *THREE GREY DAYS.*

-

-.. vspace:: 1

-

-..

-

-   |  If she would come, now, and say, *What will you Lover?*—

-   |  She who has the fairest gifts of all the earth to give—

-   |  Think you I should ask some tremendous thing to prove her,

-   |  Her life, say, and all her love, so long as she might live?

-   |  Should I touch her hair? her hands? her garments, even?

-   |  Nay! for such rewards the gods their own good time have set!

-   |  Once, these were *all* mine: the least, poor one was heaven:

-   |  Now, lest she remember, I pray that she forget.

-

-   |  Merely should I ask—ah! she would not refuse them

-   |  Who still seems very kind when I meet with her in dreams—

-   |  Only three of our old days, and—should she help to choose them

-   |  Would the first not be in April, beside the sudden streams?......

-   |  Once, upon a morning, up the path that we had taken,

-   |  We saw Spring come where the willow-buds are grey;

-   |  Heard the high hills, as with tread of armies, shaken;

-   |  Felt the strong sun—O, the glory of that day!

-

-   |  And then—what? one afternoon of quiet summer weather

-   |  O, woodlands and meadow-lands along the blue St. John,

-   |  My birch finds a path—though your rafts lie close together—

-   |  Then O! what starry miles before the grey o' the dawn!........

-   |  I have met the new day, among the misty islands,

-   |  Come with whine of saw-mills and whirr of hidden wings,

-   |  Gleam of dewy cobwebs, smell of grassy highlands.—

-   |  Ah! the blood grows young again thinking of these things.

-

-   |  Then, last and best of all!  Though all else were found hollow

-   |  Would Time not send a little space, before the Autumn's close,

-   |  And lead us up the road—the old road we used to follow

-   |  Among the sunset hills till the Hunter's Moon arise?......

-   |  Then, Home through the poplar-wood! damp across our faces

-   |  The grey leaves that fall, the moths that flutter by:

-   |  Yea! this for me, now, of all old hours and places,

-   |  To keep when I am dead, Time, until she come to die.

-

-.. vspace:: 4

-

-.. _`THE WATCH.`:

-

-.. class:: center large

-

-   \VIII. *THE WATCH.*

-

-.. vspace:: 1

-

-..

-

-   |  Are those her feet at last upon the stair?

-   |  Her trailing garments echoing there?

-   |  The falling of her hair?

-

-   |  About a year ago I heard her come,

-   |  Thus; as a child recalling some

-   |  Vague memories of home.

-

-   |  O how the firelight blinded her dear eyes!

-   |  I saw them open, and grow wise:

-   |  No questions, no replies.

-

-   |  And now, tonight, comes the same sound of rain.

-   |  The wet boughs reach against the pane

-   |  In the same way, again.

-

-   |  In the old way I hear the moaning wind

-   |  Hunt the dead leaves it cannot find,—

-   |  Blind as the stars are blind.

-

-   |  —She may come in at midnight, tired and wan,

-   |  Yet,—what if once again at dawn

-   |  I wake to find her gone?

-

-.. vspace:: 4

-

-.. _`THE SEEKERS.`:

-

-.. class:: center large

-

-   \IX. *THE SEEKERS.*

-

-.. vspace:: 1

-

-..

-

-   |  Is it very long ago things were as they are

-   |  Now? or was it ever? or is it to be?

-   |  Was it up this road we came, glad the end was far?

-   |  Taking comfort each of each, singing cheerily?

-

-   |  O, the way was good to tread!  Up hill and down;

-   |  Past the quiet forestlands, by the grassy plains;

-   |  Here a stony wilderness, there an ancient town,

-   |  Now the high sun over us, now the driving rains.

-

-   |  Strange and evil things we met—but what cared we,

-   |  Strong men and unafraid, ripe for any chance?

-   |  Battles by the countless score, red blood running free—

-   |  Soon we learned that all of these were our inheritance.

-

-   |  Some of us there were that fell: what was that to us?

-   |  They were weak—we were strong—health we held to yet:

-   |  Pleasant graves we digged them, we the valorous,—

-   |  Then to the road again, striving to forget.

-

-   |  Once again upon the road!  The seasons passed us by—

-   |  Blood-root and mayflowers, grasses straight and tall,

-   |  Scarlet banners on the hills, snowdrifts white and high,—

-   |  One by one we lived them through, giving thanks for all.

-

-   |  O, the countries that we found in our wandering!

-   |  Wide seas without a sail, islands fringed with foam,

-   |  Undiscovered till we came, waiting for their king,—

-   |  We might tarry but a while, far away from home.

-

-   |  Far away the home we sought,—soon we must be gone;

-   |  The old road, the old days, still we clung to those;

-   |  The dawn came, the noon came, the dusk came, the dawn—

-   |  Still we kept upon this path long ago we chose.

-

-   |        *      *      *      *      *

-

-   |  Was it up this road we came, glad the end was far,

-   |  Yesterday,—last year—a million years ago?

-   |  Surely it was morning then: now, the twilight star

-   |  Hangs above the hidden hills—white and very low.

-

-   |  Quietly the Earth takes on the hush of things asleep;

-   |  All the silence of the birds stills the moveless air;

-   |  —Yet we must not falter now, though the way be steep;

-   |  Just beyond the turn o' the road,—surely Peace is thee!

-

-.. vspace:: 4

-

-.. _`FELLOWSHIP.`:

-

-.. class:: center large

-

-   \X. *FELLOWSHIP*.

-

-.. vspace:: 1

-

-.. class:: center medium

-

-   \1.

-

-.. vspace:: 1

-

-..

-

-   |  At last we reached the pointed firs

-   |  And rested for a little while;

-   |  The light of home was in her smile

-   |  And my cold hand grew warm as her's.

-

-   |  Behind, across the level snow,

-   |  We saw the half-moon touch the hill

-   |  Where we had felt the sunset; still

-   |  Our feet had many miles to go.

-

-   |  And now, new little stars were born

-   |  In the dark hollows of the sky:—

-   |  Perhaps (she said) lest we should die

-   |  Of weariness before the morn.

-

-.. vspace:: 2

-

-.. class:: center medium

-

-   \2.

-

-.. vspace:: 1

-

-..

-

-   |  Once, when the year stood still at June,

-   |  At even we had tarried there

-   |  Till Dusk came in—her noiseless hair

-   |  Trailing along a pathway strewn

-

-   |  With broken cones and year-old things,

-   |  But now, tonight, it seemed that She

-   |  Therein abode continually,

-   |  With weighted feet and folded wings,

-

-   |  And so we lingered not for dawn

-   |  To mark the edges of out path;

-   |  But with such home a blind man hath

-   |  At midnight, we went groping on.

-

-   |  —I do not know how many firs

-   |  We stumbled past in that still wood:

-   |  Only I know that once we stood

-   |  Together there—my lips on her's.

-

-.. vspace:: 2

-

-.. class:: center medium

-

-   \3.

-

-.. vspace:: 1

-

-..

-

-   |  Between the midnight and the dawn

-   |  We came out on the farther side;

-   |  —What if the wood *was* dark and wide?

-   |  Its shadows now here far withdrawn,

-

-   |  And O the white stars in the sky!

-   |  And O the glitter of the snow!—

-   |  Henceforth we know our feet should know

-   |  Fair ways to travel—she and I—

-

-   |  For One—Whose shadow is the Night—

-   |  Unwound them where the Great Bear swung

-   |  And wide across the darkness flung

-   |  The ribbons of the Northern Light.

-

-

-.. vspace:: 4

-

-.. _`THE LODGER.`:

-

-.. class:: center large

-

-   \XI. *THE LODGER.*

-

-.. vspace:: 1

-

-..

-

-   |  What! and do you find it good,

-   |  Sitting here alone with me?

-   |  Hark! the wind goes through the wood

-   |  And the snow drifts heavily,

-

-   |  When the morning brings the light

-   |  How know I you will not say,

-   |  "What a storm there fell last night,

-   |  Is the next inn far away?"

-

-   |  How know I you do not dream

-   |  Of some country where the grass

-   |  Grows up tall around the gleam

-   |  Of the milestones you must pass?

-

-   |  Even now perhaps you tell

-   |  (While your hands play through my hair)

-   |  Every hill, each hidden well,

-   |  All the pleasant valleys there,

-

-   |  That before a clear moon shines

-   |  You will be with them again!

-   |  —Hear the booming of the pines

-   |  And the sleet against the pane.

-

-.. vspace:: 2

-

-.. class:: center medium

-

-   \2.

-

-.. vspace:: 1

-

-..

-

-   |  Wake, and look upon the sun,

-   |  I awoke an hour ago,

-   |  When the night was hardly done

-   |  And still fell a little snow,

-

-   |  Since the hill-tops touched the light

-   |  Many things have my hands made,

-   |  Just that you should think them right

-   |  And be glad that you have stayed.

-

-   |  —How I worked the while you slept!

-   |  Scarcely did I dare to sing!

-   |  All my soul a silence kept—

-   |  Fearing your awakening.

-

-   |  Now, indeed, I do not care

-   |  If you wake; for now the sun

-   |  Makes the least of all things fair

-   |  That my poor two hands have done.

-

-.. vspace:: 2

-

-.. class:: center medium

-

-   \3.

-

-.. vspace:: 1

-

-..

-

-   |  No, it is not hard to find.

-   |  You will know it by the hills—

-   |  Seven—sloping up behind;

-   |  By the soft perfume that fills

-

-   |  (O, the red, red roses there!)

-   |  Full the narrow path thereto:

-   |  By the dark pine-forest where

-   |  Such a little wind breathes through;

-

-   |  By the way the bend o' the stream

-   |  Takes the peace that twilight brings:

-   |  By the sunset, and the gleam

-   |  Of uncounted swallows' wings.

-

-   |  —No, indeed, I have not been

-   |  There: but such dreams I have had!

-   |  And, when I grow old, the green

-   |  Leaves will hide me, too, made glad.

-

-   |  Yes, you must go now, I know.

-   |  You are sure you understand?

-   |  —How I wish that I could go

-   |  Now, and lead you by the hand.

-

-.. vspace:: 4

-

-.. _`MARCH WIND.`:

-

-.. class:: center large

-

-   \XII. *MARCH WIND.*

-

-.. vspace:: 1

-

-..

-

-   |  High above the trees, swinging in across the hills,

-   |  There's a wide cloud, ominous and slow;

-   |  And the wind that rushes over sends the little stars to cover

-   |  And the wavering shadows fade along the snow.

-   |  Surely on my window (Hark the tumult of the night!)

-   |  That's a first, fitful drop of scanty rain;

-   |  And the hillside wakes and quivers with the strength of newborn rivers

-   |  Come to make our Northland glad and free again.

-

-   |  O remember how the snow fell the long winter through!

-   |  Was it yesterday I tied your snowshoes on?

-   |  All my soul grew wild with yearning for the sight of you returning

-   |  But I waited all those hours that you were gone,

-   |  For I watched you from our window through the blurring flakes that fell

-   |  Till you gained the quiet wood, and then I knew

-   |  (When our pathways lay together how we revelled in such weather!)

-   |  That the ancient things I loved would comfort you.

-

-   |  Now I knew that you would tarry in the shadow of the firs

-   |  And remember many winters overpast:

-   |  All the hidden signs I found you of the hiding life around you,

-   |  Sleeping patient till the year should wake at last.

-   |  Here a tuft of fern underneath the rounded drift:

-   |  A rock, there, behind a covered spring;

-   |  And here, nowhither tending, tracks beginning not nor ending,—

-   |  Was it bird or shy four-footed furry thing?

-

-   |  And remember how we followed down the woodman's winding trail!

-   |  By the axe-strokes ringing louder, one by one,

-   |  Well we knew that we were nearing now the edges of the clearing,—

-   |  O the gleam of chips all yellow in the sun!

-   |  But the twilight fell about us as we watched him at his work;

-   |  And in the south a sudden moon, hung low,

-   |  Beckoned us beyond the shadows—down the hill—across the meadows

-   |  Where our little house loomed dark against the snow.

-

-   |  And that night, too—remember?—outside our quiet house,

-   |  Just before the dawn we heard the moaning wind:

-   |  Only then its wings were weighted with the storm itself created

-   |  And it hid the very things it came to find.

-   |  In the morn, when we arose, and looked out across the fields,

-   |  (Hark the branches! how they shatter overhead!)

-   |  Seemed it not that Time was sleeping, and the whole wide world was keeping

-   |  All the silence of the Houses of the dead?

-

-   |  Ah, but that was long ago!  And tonight the wind foretells

-   |  (Hark, above the wind, the little laughing rills!)

-   |  Earth's forgetfulness of sorrow when the dawn shall break tomorrow

-   |  And lead me to the bases of the hills:

-   |  To the low southern hills where of old we used to go—

-   |  (Hark the rumour of ten thousand ancient Springs!)

-   |  O my love, to thy dark quiet—far beyond our North's mad riot—

-   |  Do thy new Gods bring remembrance of such things?

-

-.. vspace:: 4

-

-.. class:: center large white-space-pre-line

-

-   A Canadian Calendar: XII Lyrics

-   written by Francis Sherman and

-   privately printed in Havana is

-   issued at Christmastide M.C.M.

-

-.. vspace:: 6

-

-.. pgfooter::

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-                    A CANADIAN CALENDAR: XII LYRICS
-
-
-
-
-This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost
-no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it
-under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this
-eBook or online at http://www.gutenberg.org/license.
-
-
-
-Title: A Canadian Calendar: XII Lyrics
-Author: Francis Sherman
-Release Date: June 02, 2013 [EBook #39796]
-Language: English
-Character set encoding: US-ASCII
-
-
-*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A CANADIAN CALENDAR: XII
-LYRICS ***
-
-
-
-
-Produced by Al Haines.
-
-
-                               A CANADIAN
-                               CALENDAR:
-                               XII LYRICS
-
-
-                            Francis Sherman
-
-
-
-                               HABANA:MCM
-
-
-
-
-                                  _To_
-                               _F. H. D._
-
-
-
-
-_XII. LYRICS: A LIST._
-
-      I. IN THE NORTH.
-     II. A ROAD SONG IN MAY.
-    III. THE LANDSMAN.
-     IV. THE GHOST.
-      V. A SONG IN AUGUST.
-     VI. TO AUTUMN.
-    VII. THREE GREY DAYS.
-   VIII. THE WATCH.
-     IX. THE SEEKERS.
-      X. FELLOWSHIP.
-     XI. THE LODGER.
-    XII. MARCH WIND.
-
-
-
-
-                           I. _IN THE NORTH._
-
-
-    Come, let us go and be glad again together
-    Where of old our eyes were opened and we knew that we were free!
-    Come, for it is April, and her hands have loosed the tether
-    That has bound for long her children.--who her children more
-            than we?
-
-    Hark! hear you not how the strong waters thunder
-    Down through the alders with the word they have to bring?
-    Even now they win the meadow and the withered turf is under,
-    And, above, the willows quiver with foreknowledge of the spring.
-
-    Yea, they come, and joy in coming: for the giant hills have sent
-            them.--
-    The hills that guard the portal where the South has built her
-            throne:
-    Unloitering their course is,--can wayside pools content them,
-    Who were born where old pine forests for the sea forever moan?
-
-    And they, behind the hills, where forever bloom the flowers,
-    So they ever know the worship of the re-arisen Earth?
-    Do their hands ever clasp such a happiness as ours,
-    Now the waters foam about us and the grasses have their birth?
-
-    Fair is their land,--yea fair beyond all dreaming,--
-    With its sun upon the roses and its long summer day;
-    Yet surely they must envy us our vision of the gleaming
-    Of our lady's white throat as she comes her ancient way.
-
-    For their year is never April--Oh what were Time without her!
-    Yea, the drifted snows may cover us, yet shall we not complain:
-    Knowing well our Lady April--all her raiment blown about her--
-    Will return with many kisses for our unremembered pain!
-
-
-
-
-                       II. _A ROAD SONG IN MAY._
-
-    O come!  Is it not surely May?
-    The year is at its poise today.
-    Northward, I hear the distant beat
-    Of Spring's irrevocable feet:
-    Tomorrow June will have her way.
-
-    O tawny waters, flecked with sun,
-    Come: for your labours all are done.
-    The grey snow fadeth from the hills;
-    And toward the sound of waking mills
-    Swing the brown rafts in, one by one.
-
-    O bees among the willow-blooms,
-    Forget your empty waxen rooms
-    Awhile, and share our golden hours!
-    Will they not come, the later flowers,
-    With their old colours and perfumes?
-
-    O wind that bloweth from the west,
-    Is not this morning road the best?
-    --Let us go hand in hand, as free
-    And glad as little children be
-    That follow some long-dreamed-of quest!
-
-
-
-
-                          III. _THE LANDSMAN._
-
-    "It well may be just as you say,
-    Will Carver, that your tales are true;
-    Yet think what I must put away,
-    Will Carver, if sail with you."
-
-    "If you should sail with me (the wind
-    Is west, the tide's at full, my men!)
-    The things that you have left behind
-    Will be as nothing to you then."
-
-    "Inland, it's June!  And birds sing
-    Among the wooded hills, I know;
-    Between green fields, unhastening,
-    The Nashwaak's shadowed waters flow.
-
-    "What know you of such things as these
-    Who have the grey sea at your door,--
-    Whose path is as the strong winds please
-    Beyond this narrow strip of shore?"
-
-    "_Your_ fields and woods!  Now, answer me:
-    Up what green path have your feet run
-    So wide as mine, when the deep sea
-    Lies all-uncovered to the sun?
-
-    And down the hollows of what hills
-    Have you gone--half so glad of heart
-    As you shall be when our sail fills
-    And the great waves ride far apart?"
-
-    "O! half your life is good to live,
-    Will Carver; yet, if I should go,
-    What are the things that you can give
-    Lest I regret the things I know!
-
-    "Lest I desire the old life's way?
-    The noises of the crowded town?
-    The busy streets, where, night and day,
-    The traffickers go up and down?"
-
-    "What can I give for these?  Alas,
-    That all unchanged your path must be!
-    Strange lights shall open as we pass
-    And alien wakes traverse the sea;
-
-    "Your ears shall hear (across your sleep)
-    New hails, remote, disquieted,
-    For not a hand-breadth of the deep
-    But has to soothe some restless dead.
-
-    "These things shall be.  And other things,
-    I think, not quite so sad as these!
-    --Know you the song the rigging sings
-    When up the opal-tinted seas
-
-    "The slow south-wind comes amorously?
-    The sudden gleam of some far sail
-    Going the same glad way as we,
-    Hastily, lest the good wind fail?
-
-    "The dreams that come (so strange, so fair!)
-    When all your world lies well within
-    The moving magic circle where
-    The sea ends and the skies begin?"......
-
-    ......"What port is that, so far astern,
-    Will Carver?  And how many miles
-    Shall we have run ere the tide turn?
-    --And is it far to the farthest isles?"
-
-
-
-
-                            IV. _THE GHOST._
-
-    Just where the field becomes the wood
-    I thought I saw again
-    Her old remembered face--made grey
-    As it had known the rain.
-
-    The trees grow thickly there; no place
-    Has half so many trees;
-    And hunted things elude one there
-    Like ancient memories.
-
-    The path itself is hard to find,
-    And slopes up suddenly;
-    --In the old days it was a path
-    None knew so well as we.
-
-    The path slopes upward, till it leaves
-    The great trees far behind;
-    --I met her once where the slender birch
-    Grow up to meet the wind.
-
-    Where the poplars quiver endlessly
-    And the falling leaves are grey,
-    I saw her come, and I was glad
-    That she had learned the way.
-
-    She paused a moment where the path
-    Grew sunlighted and broad;
-    Within her hair slept all the gold
-    Of all the golden-rod.
-
-    And then the wood closed in on her.
-    And my hand found her hand;
-    She had no words to say, yet I
-    Was quick to understand.
-
-    I dared to look in her two eyes;
-    They too, I thought, were grey:
-    But no sun shone, and all around
-    Great, quiet shadows lay.
-
-    Yet, as I looked, I surely knew
-    That they knew nought of tears,--
-    But this was very long ago,
-    --A year, perhaps ten years.
-
-    All this was long ago.  Today,
-    Her hand met not with mine;
-    And where the pathway widened out
-    I saw no gold hair shine.
-
-    I had a weary, fruitless search,
-    --I think that her wan face
-    Was but the face of one asleep
-    Who dreams she knew this place.
-
-
-
-
-                         V. _A SONG IN AUGUST._
-
-    O gold is the West and gold the river-waters
-    Washing past the sides of my yellow birch canoe,
-    Gold are the great drops that fall from my paddle,
-    The far-off hills cry a golden word of you.
-
-    I can almost see you!  Where its own shadow
-    Creeps down the hill's side, gradual and slow.
-    There you stand waiting; the goldenrod and thistle
-    Glad of you beside them--the fairest thing they know.
-
-    Down the worn foot-path, the tufted pines behind you,
-    Grey sheep between,--unfrightened as you pass;
-    Swift through the sun-glow, I to my loved one
-    Come, striving hard against the long trailing grass.
-
-    Soon shall I ground on the shining gravel-reaches:
-    Through the thick alders you will break your way:
-    Then your hand in mine, and our path is on the waters,--
-    For us the long shadows and the end of day.
-
-    Whither shall we go?  See, over to the westward,
-    An hour of precious gold standeth still for you and me;
-    Still gleams the grain, all yellow on the uplands;
-    West is it, or East, O Love that you would be?
-
-    West now, or East?  For, underneath the moonrise,
-    Also it is fair; and where the reeds are tall,
-    And the only little noise is the sound of quiet waters,
-    Heavy, like the rain, we shall hear the duck-oats fall.
-
-    And perhaps we shall see, rising slowly from the driftwood,
-    A lone crane go over to its inland nest:
-    Or a dark line of ducks will come in across the islands
-    And sail overhead to the marshes of the west.
-
-    Now a little wind rises up for our returning;
-    Silver grows the East as the West grows grey;
-    Shadows on the waters, shaded are the meadows,
-    The firs on the hillside--naught so dark as they.
-
-    Yet we have known the light!--Was ever such an August?
-    Your hand leave mine; and the new stars gleam
-    As we separately go to our dreams of opened heaven,--
-    The golden dawn shall tell you that you did not dream.
-
-
-
-
-                            VI. _TO AUTUMN._
-
-    How shall I greet thee, Autumn? with loud praise
-    And joyous song and wild, tumultuous laughter?
-    Or unrestrained tears?
-    Shall I behold only the scarlet haze
-    Of these thy days
-    That come to crown this best of all the years?
-    Or shall I hear, even now, those sad hours chime--
-    Those unborn hours that surely follow after
-    The shedding of thy last-relinquished leaf--
-    Till I, too, learn the strength and change of time
-    Who am made one with grief?
-
-    For now thou comest not as thou of old
-    Wast wont to come; and now mine old desire
-    Is sated not at all
-    With sunset-visions of thy splendid gold
-    Or fold on fold
-    Of the stained clouds thou hast for coronal.
-    Still all these ways and things are thine, and still
-    Before thine altar burneth the ancient fire;
-    The blackness of the pines is still the same,
-    And the same peace broodeth behind the hill
-    Where the old maples flame.
-
-    I, counting these, behold no change; and yet,
-    To-day, I deem, they know not me for lover,
-    Nor live because of me.
-    And yesterday, was it not thou I met,
-    Thy warm lips wet
-    And purpled with wild grapes crushed wantonly,
-    And yellow wind-swept wheat bound round thy hair,
-    Thy brawn breast half set free and half draped over
-    With long green leaves of corn?  Was it not thou,
-    Thy feet unsandaled, and thy shoulders bare
-    As the gleaned fields are now?
-
-    Yea, Autumn, it was thou, and glad was I
-    To meet thee and caress thee for an hour
-    And fancy I was thine;
-    For then I had not learned all things must die
-    Under the sky,--
-    That everywhere (a flaw in the design!)
-    Decay crept in, unquickening the mass,--
-    Creed, empire, man-at-arms, or stone, or flower.
-    In my unwisdom then, I had not read
-    The message writ across Earth's face, alas,
-    But scanned the sun instead.
-
-    For all men sow; and then it happeneth--
-    When harvest time is come, and thou are season--
-    Each goeth forth to reap.
-    "This cometh unto him" (perchance one saith)
-    "Who laboreth:
-    This is my wage: I will lie down and sleep."--
-    He maketh no oblation unto Earth.
-    Another, in his heart divine unreason,
-    Seeing his fields lie barren in the sun,
-    Crieth, "O fool!  Behold the little worth
-    Of that thy toil hath won!"
-
-    And so one sleepeth, dreaming of no prayer;
-    And so one lieth sleepless, till thou comest
-    To bid his cursing cease;
-    Then, in his dreams, envieth the other's share.
-    Whilst, otherwhere,
-    Thou showest still thy perfect face of peace,
-    O Autumn, unto men of alien lands!
-    Along their paths a little while thou roamest.
-    A little while they deem thee queenliest,
-    And good the laying-on of thy warm hands,--
-    And then, they, too, would rest.
-
-    They, too, would only rest, forgetting thee!
-    But I, who am grown the wiser for thy loving,
-    Never may thee deny!
-    And when the last child hath forsaken me,
-    And quietly
-    Men go about the house wherein I lie,
-    I shall lie glad, feeling across my face
-    Thy damp and clinging hair, and thy hands moving
-    To find my wasted hands that wait for thine
-    Beneath white cloths; and, for one whisper's space,
-    Autumn, thy lips on mine!
-
-
-
-
-                        VII. _THREE GREY DAYS._
-
-    If she would come, now, and say, _What will you Lover?_--
-    She who has the fairest gifts of all the earth to give--
-    Think you I should ask some tremendous thing to prove her,
-    Her life, say, and all her love, so long as she might live?
-    Should I touch her hair? her hands? her garments, even?
-    Nay! for such rewards the gods their own good time have set!
-    Once, these were _all_ mine: the least, poor one was heaven:
-    Now, lest she remember, I pray that she forget.
-
-    Merely should I ask--ah! she would not refuse them
-    Who still seems very kind when I meet with her in dreams--
-    Only three of our old days, and--should she help to choose them
-    Would the first not be in April, beside the sudden
-            streams?......
-    Once, upon a morning, up the path that we had taken,
-    We saw Spring come where the willow-buds are grey;
-    Heard the high hills, as with tread of armies, shaken;
-    Felt the strong sun--O, the glory of that day!
-
-    And then--what? one afternoon of quiet summer weather
-    O, woodlands and meadow-lands along the blue St. John,
-    My birch finds a path--though your rafts lie close together--
-    Then O! what starry miles before the grey o' the dawn!........
-    I have met the new day, among the misty islands,
-    Come with whine of saw-mills and whirr of hidden wings,
-    Gleam of dewy cobwebs, smell of grassy highlands.--
-    Ah! the blood grows young again thinking of these things.
-
-    Then, last and best of all!  Though all else were found hollow
-    Would Time not send a little space, before the Autumn's close,
-    And lead us up the road--the old road we used to follow
-    Among the sunset hills till the Hunter's Moon arise?......
-    Then, Home through the poplar-wood! damp across our faces
-    The grey leaves that fall, the moths that flutter by:
-    Yea! this for me, now, of all old hours and places,
-    To keep when I am dead, Time, until she come to die.
-
-
-
-
-                           VIII. _THE WATCH._
-
-    Are those her feet at last upon the stair?
-    Her trailing garments echoing there?
-    The falling of her hair?
-
-    About a year ago I heard her come,
-    Thus; as a child recalling some
-    Vague memories of home.
-
-    O how the firelight blinded her dear eyes!
-    I saw them open, and grow wise:
-    No questions, no replies.
-
-    And now, tonight, comes the same sound of rain.
-    The wet boughs reach against the pane
-    In the same way, again.
-
-    In the old way I hear the moaning wind
-    Hunt the dead leaves it cannot find,--
-    Blind as the stars are blind.
-
-    --She may come in at midnight, tired and wan,
-    Yet,--what if once again at dawn
-    I wake to find her gone?
-
-
-
-
-                           IX. _THE SEEKERS._
-
-    Is it very long ago things were as they are
-    Now? or was it ever? or is it to be?
-    Was it up this road we came, glad the end was far?
-    Taking comfort each of each, singing cheerily?
-
-    O, the way was good to tread!  Up hill and down;
-    Past the quiet forestlands, by the grassy plains;
-    Here a stony wilderness, there an ancient town,
-    Now the high sun over us, now the driving rains.
-
-    Strange and evil things we met--but what cared we,
-    Strong men and unafraid, ripe for any chance?
-    Battles by the countless score, red blood running free--
-    Soon we learned that all of these were our inheritance.
-
-    Some of us there were that fell: what was that to us?
-    They were weak--we were strong--health we held to yet:
-    Pleasant graves we digged them, we the valorous,--
-    Then to the road again, striving to forget.
-
-    Once again upon the road!  The seasons passed us by--
-    Blood-root and mayflowers, grasses straight and tall,
-    Scarlet banners on the hills, snowdrifts white and high,--
-    One by one we lived them through, giving thanks for all.
-
-    O, the countries that we found in our wandering!
-    Wide seas without a sail, islands fringed with foam,
-    Undiscovered till we came, waiting for their king,--
-    We might tarry but a while, far away from home.
-
-    Far away the home we sought,--soon we must be gone;
-    The old road, the old days, still we clung to those;
-    The dawn came, the noon came, the dusk came, the dawn--
-    Still we kept upon this path long ago we chose.
-
-    *      *      *      *      *
-
-    Was it up this road we came, glad the end was far,
-    Yesterday,--last year--a million years ago?
-    Surely it was morning then: now, the twilight star
-    Hangs above the hidden hills--white and very low.
-
-    Quietly the Earth takes on the hush of things asleep;
-    All the silence of the birds stills the moveless air;
-    --Yet we must not falter now, though the way be steep;
-    Just beyond the turn o' the road,--surely Peace is thee!
-
-
-
-
-                            X. _FELLOWSHIP_.
-
-                                   1.
-
-    At last we reached the pointed firs
-    And rested for a little while;
-    The light of home was in her smile
-    And my cold hand grew warm as her's.
-
-    Behind, across the level snow,
-    We saw the half-moon touch the hill
-    Where we had felt the sunset; still
-    Our feet had many miles to go.
-
-    And now, new little stars were born
-    In the dark hollows of the sky:--
-    Perhaps (she said) lest we should die
-    Of weariness before the morn.
-
-
-                                   2.
-
-    Once, when the year stood still at June,
-    At even we had tarried there
-    Till Dusk came in--her noiseless hair
-    Trailing along a pathway strewn
-
-    With broken cones and year-old things,
-    But now, tonight, it seemed that She
-    Therein abode continually,
-    With weighted feet and folded wings,
-
-    And so we lingered not for dawn
-    To mark the edges of out path;
-    But with such home a blind man hath
-    At midnight, we went groping on.
-
-    --I do not know how many firs
-    We stumbled past in that still wood:
-    Only I know that once we stood
-    Together there--my lips on her's.
-
-
-                                   3.
-
-    Between the midnight and the dawn
-    We came out on the farther side;
-    --What if the wood _was_ dark and wide?
-    Its shadows now here far withdrawn,
-
-    And O the white stars in the sky!
-    And O the glitter of the snow!--
-    Henceforth we know our feet should know
-    Fair ways to travel--she and I--
-
-    For One--Whose shadow is the Night--
-    Unwound them where the Great Bear swung
-    And wide across the darkness flung
-    The ribbons of the Northern Light.
-
-
-
-
-                           XI. _THE LODGER._
-
-    What! and do you find it good,
-    Sitting here alone with me?
-    Hark! the wind goes through the wood
-    And the snow drifts heavily,
-
-    When the morning brings the light
-    How know I you will not say,
-    "What a storm there fell last night,
-    Is the next inn far away?"
-
-    How know I you do not dream
-    Of some country where the grass
-    Grows up tall around the gleam
-    Of the milestones you must pass?
-
-    Even now perhaps you tell
-    (While your hands play through my hair)
-    Every hill, each hidden well,
-    All the pleasant valleys there,
-
-    That before a clear moon shines
-    You will be with them again!
-    --Hear the booming of the pines
-    And the sleet against the pane.
-
-
-                                   2.
-
-    Wake, and look upon the sun,
-    I awoke an hour ago,
-    When the night was hardly done
-    And still fell a little snow,
-
-    Since the hill-tops touched the light
-    Many things have my hands made,
-    Just that you should think them right
-    And be glad that you have stayed.
-
-    --How I worked the while you slept!
-    Scarcely did I dare to sing!
-    All my soul a silence kept--
-    Fearing your awakening.
-
-    Now, indeed, I do not care
-    If you wake; for now the sun
-    Makes the least of all things fair
-    That my poor two hands have done.
-
-
-                                   3.
-
-    No, it is not hard to find.
-    You will know it by the hills--
-    Seven--sloping up behind;
-    By the soft perfume that fills
-
-    (O, the red, red roses there!)
-    Full the narrow path thereto:
-    By the dark pine-forest where
-    Such a little wind breathes through;
-
-    By the way the bend o' the stream
-    Takes the peace that twilight brings:
-    By the sunset, and the gleam
-    Of uncounted swallows' wings.
-
-    --No, indeed, I have not been
-    There: but such dreams I have had!
-    And, when I grow old, the green
-    Leaves will hide me, too, made glad.
-
-    Yes, you must go now, I know.
-    You are sure you understand?
-    --How I wish that I could go
-    Now, and lead you by the hand.
-
-
-
-
-                           XII. _MARCH WIND._
-
-    High above the trees, swinging in across the hills,
-    There's a wide cloud, ominous and slow;
-    And the wind that rushes over sends the little stars to cover
-    And the wavering shadows fade along the snow.
-    Surely on my window (Hark the tumult of the night!)
-    That's a first, fitful drop of scanty rain;
-    And the hillside wakes and quivers with the strength of newborn
-            rivers
-    Come to make our Northland glad and free again.
-
-    O remember how the snow fell the long winter through!
-    Was it yesterday I tied your snowshoes on?
-    All my soul grew wild with yearning for the sight of you
-            returning
-    But I waited all those hours that you were gone,
-    For I watched you from our window through the blurring flakes
-            that fell
-    Till you gained the quiet wood, and then I knew
-    (When our pathways lay together how we revelled in such
-            weather!)
-    That the ancient things I loved would comfort you.
-
-    Now I knew that you would tarry in the shadow of the firs
-    And remember many winters overpast:
-    All the hidden signs I found you of the hiding life around you,
-    Sleeping patient till the year should wake at last.
-    Here a tuft of fern underneath the rounded drift:
-    A rock, there, behind a covered spring;
-    And here, nowhither tending, tracks beginning not nor ending,--
-    Was it bird or shy four-footed furry thing?
-
-    And remember how we followed down the woodman's winding trail!
-    By the axe-strokes ringing louder, one by one,
-    Well we knew that we were nearing now the edges of the
-            clearing,--
-    O the gleam of chips all yellow in the sun!
-    But the twilight fell about us as we watched him at his work;
-    And in the south a sudden moon, hung low,
-    Beckoned us beyond the shadows--down the hill--across the
-            meadows
-    Where our little house loomed dark against the snow.
-
-    And that night, too--remember?--outside our quiet house,
-    Just before the dawn we heard the moaning wind:
-    Only then its wings were weighted with the storm itself created
-    And it hid the very things it came to find.
-    In the morn, when we arose, and looked out across the fields,
-    (Hark the branches! how they shatter overhead!)
-    Seemed it not that Time was sleeping, and the whole wide world
-            was keeping
-    All the silence of the Houses of the dead?
-
-    Ah, but that was long ago!  And tonight the wind foretells
-    (Hark, above the wind, the little laughing rills!)
-    Earth's forgetfulness of sorrow when the dawn shall break
-            tomorrow
-    And lead me to the bases of the hills:
-    To the low southern hills where of old we used to go--
-    (Hark the rumour of ten thousand ancient Springs!)
-    O my love, to thy dark quiet--far beyond our North's mad riot--
-    Do thy new Gods bring remembrance of such things?
-
-
-
-
-                    A Canadian Calendar: XII Lyrics
-                     written by Francis Sherman and
-                     privately printed in Havana is
-                     issued at Christmastide M.C.M.
-
-
-
-
-
-
-*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A CANADIAN CALENDAR: XII LYRICS
-***
-
-
-
-
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