Charles George Douglas Roberts
Friend, those delights of ours Under the sun and showers,— Athrough the noonday blue Sliding our light canoe,
Or floating, hushed, at eve, When the dim pine-tops grieve! What tonic days were they Where shy streams dart and play,—
Where rivers brown and strong As caribou bound along, Break into angry parle Where wildcat rapids snarl,
Subside, and like a snake Wind to the quiet lake! We've paddled furtively, Where giant boughs hide the sky,—
Have stolen, and held our breath, Thro’ coverts still as death,— Have left with wing unstirred The brooding phoebe-bird,
And hardly caused a care In the water-spider's lair. For love of his clear pipe We've flushed the zigzag snipe,—
Have chased in wilful mood The wood-duck's flapping brood,— Have spied the antlered moose Cropping the young green spruce,
And watched him till betrayed By the kingfisher's sharp tirade. Quitting the bodeful shades We've run thro’ sunnier glades,
And dropping craft and heed Have bid our paddles speed. Where the mad rapids chafe We've shouted, steering safe,—
With sinew tense, nerve keen, Shot thro’ the roar, and seen, With spirit wild as theirs, The white waves leap-like hares.
And then, with souls grown clear In that sweet atmosphere, With influences serene Our blood and brain washed clean,
We've idled down the breast Of broadening tides at rest, And marked the winds, the birds, The bees, the far-off herds,
Into a drowsy tune Transmute the afternoon. So, Friend, with ears and eyes Which shy divinities
Have opened with their kiss, We need no balm but this,— A little space for dreams On care-unsullied streams,—
‘ Mid task and toil, a space To dream on Nature's face!
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