Archibald Lampman

No girdle hath weaver or goldsmith wrought So rich as the arms of my love can be; No gems with a lovelier lustre fraught

What days await this woman, whose strange feet Breathe spells, whose presence makes men dream like wine, Tall, free and slender as the forest pine,

Oh city, whom grey stormy hands have sown With restless drift, scarce broken now of any, Out of the dark thy windows dim and many

Oh earth, oh dewy mother, breathe on us Something of all thy beauty and thy might, Us that are part of day, but most of night,

With what doubting eyes, oh sparrow, Thou regardest me, Underneath yon spray of yarrow,

Oh night and sleep, Ye are so soft and deep, I am so weary, come ye soon to me.

A moment the wild swallows like a flight Of withered gust-caught leaves, serenely high, Toss in the windrack up the muttering sky.

By a void and soundless river On the outer edge of space, Where the body comes not ever,

Underneath a tree at noontide Abu Midjan sits distressed, Fetters on his wrists and ancles,

For three whole days across the sky, In sullen packs that loomed and broke, With flying fringes dim as smoke,

In the silent depth of space, Immeasurably old, immeasurably far, Glittering with a silver flame

The dew is gleaming in the grass, The morning hours are seven, And I am fain to watch you pass,

Already in the dew-wrapped vineyards dry Dense weights of heat press down. The large bright drops Shrink in the leaves. From dark acacia tops

Long hours ago, while yet the morn was blithe, Nor sharp athirst had drunk the beaded dew, A reaper came, and swung his cradled scythe

I love the warm bare earth and all That works and dreams thereon: I love the seasons yet to fall:

How the returning days, one after one, Come ever in their rhythmic round, unchanged, Yet from each loop'd robe for every man

No wind there is that either pipes or moans; The fields are cold and still; the sky Is covered with a blue-gray sheet

I heard the city time-bells call Far off in hollow towers, And one by one with measured fall

One moment the slim cloudflakes seem to lean With their sad sunward faces aureoled, And longing lips set downward brightening

'I will lift up mine eyes unto the hills, from whence cometh my help.' - PSALM CXXI. 1. 'ons ago ye were, Before the struggling changeful race of man

Even as I watched the daylight how it sped From noon till eve, and saw the light wind pass In long pale waves across the flashing grass,

To-day the world is wide and fair With sunny fields of lucid air, And waters dancing everywhere;

How deep the April night is in its noon, The hopeful, solemn, many-murmured night! The earth lies hushed with expectation; bright

Pale season, watcher in unvexed suspense, Still priestess of the patient middle day, Betwixt wild March's humored petulence

Oh deep-eyed brothers was there ever here, Or is there now, or shall there sometime be Harbour or any rest for such as we,

On such a day the shrunken stream Spends its last water and runs dry; Clouds like far turrets in a dream

The thoughts of all the maples who shall name, When the sad landscape turns to cold and grey? Yet some for very ruth and sheer dismay,

Sweet summer is gone; they have laid her away - The last sad hours that were touched with her grace - In the hush where the ghosts of the dead flowers play;

Now the creeping nets of sleep Stretch about and gather nigh, And the midnight dim and deep

The point is turned; the twilight shadow fills The wheeling stream, the soft receding shore, And on our ears from deep among the hills

Now overhead, Where the rivulet loiters and stops, The bittersweet hangs from the tops

Scarcely a breath about the rocky stair Moved, but the growing tide from verge to verge, Heaving salt fragrance on the midnight air,

With a turn of his magical rod, That extended and suddenly shone, From the round of his glory some god

What would'st thou have for easement after grief, When the rude world hath used thee with despite, And care sits at thine elbow day and night,

Comfort the sorrowful with watchful eyes In silence, for the tongue cannot avail. Vex not his wounds with rhetoric, nor the stale

'Tis well with words, oh masters, ye have sought To turn men's yearning to the great and true, Yet first take heed to what your own hands do;

Slow figures in some live remorseless frieze, The approaching days escapeless and unguessed, With mask and shroud impenetrably dressed;

To the distance! Ah, the distance! Blue and broad and dim! Peace is not in burgh or meadow,

Hear me, Brother, gently met; Just a little, turn not yet, Thou shalt laugh, and soon forget:

From upland slopes I see the cows file by, Lowing, great-chested, down the homeward trail, By dusking fields and meadows shining pale

Once, long ago, before the gods Had left this earth, by stream and forest glade, Where the first plough upturned the clinging sods,

There is singing of birds in the deep wet woods, In the heart of the listening solitudes, Pewees, and thrushes, and sparrows, not few,

Out of the heart of the city begotten Of the labour of men and their manifold hands, Whose souls, that were sprung from the earth in her morning,

Blind multitudes that jar confusedly At strife, earth's children, will ye never rest From toils made hateful here, and dawns distressed

March is slain; the keen winds fly; Nothing more is thine to do; April kisses thee good-bye;

Think not, because thine inmost heart means well, Thou hast the freedom of rude speech: sweet words Are like the voices of returning birds

From plains that reel to southward, dim, The road runs by me white and bare; Up the steep hill it seems to swim

The sun falls warm: the southern winds awake: The air seethes upward with a steamy shiver: Each dip of the road is now a crystal lake,

Grief was my master yesternight; To-morrow I may grieve again; But now along the windy plain

With loitering step and quiet eye, Beneath the low November sky, I wandered in the woods, and found

The hills and leafless forests slowly yield To the thick-driving snow. A little while And night shall darken down. In shouting file

Along the waste, a great way off, the pines, Like tall slim priests of storm, stand up and bar The low long strip of dolorous red that lines

The old grey year is near his term in sooth, And now with backward eye and soft-laid palm Awakens to a golden dream of youth,

'Tis a land where no hurricane falls, But the infinite azure regards Its waters for ever, its walls

Long, long ago, it seems, this summer morn That pale-browed April passed with pensive tread Through the frore woods, and from its frost-bound bed

What is more large than knowledge and more sweet; Knowledge of thoughts and deeds, of rights and wrongs, Of passions and of beauties and of songs;

We in sorrow coldly witting, In the bleak world sitting, sitting, By the forest, near the mould,

I passed through the gates of the city, The streets were strange and still, Through the doors of the open churches

Yearning upon the faint rose-curves that flit About her child-sweet mouth and innocent cheek, And in her eyes watching with eyes all meek

Or whether sad or joyous be her hours, Yet ever is she good and ever fair. If she be glad, 'tis like a child's wild air,

Over the dripping roofs and sunk snow-barrows The bells are ringing loud and strangely near, The shout of children dins upon mine ear

From where I sit, I see the stars, And down the chilly floor The moon between the frozen bars

Mother of balms and soothings manifold, Quiet-breath'd night whose brooding hours are seven, To whom the voices of all rest are given,

Far above us where a jay Screams his matins to the day, Capped with gold and amethyst,

Move on, light hands, so strongly tenderly, Now with dropped calm and yearning undersong, Now swift and loud, tumultuously strong,

Once on the year's last eve in my mind's might Sitting in dreams, not sad, nor quite elysian, Balancing all 'twixt wonder and derision,

The trees rustle; the wind blows Merrily out of the town; The shadows creep, the sun goes

Not to be conquered by these headlong days, But to stand free: to keep the mind at brood On life's deep meaning, nature's altitude

As a weed beneath the ocean, As a pool beneath a tree Answers with each breath or motion

O Power to whom this earthly clime Is but an atom in the whole, O Poet-heart of Space and Time,

Beloved, those who moan of love's brief day Shall find but little grace with me, I guess, Who know too well this passion's tenderness

O differing human heart, Why is it that I tremble when thine eyes, Thy human eyes and beautiful human speech,

Where swallows and wheatfields are, O hamlet brown and still, O river that shineth far,

Clothed in splendour, beautifully sad and silent, Comes the autumn over the woods and highlands, Golden, rose-red, full of divine remembrance,

Now hath the summer reached her golden close, And, lost amid her corn-fields, bright of soul, Scarcely perceives from her divine repose

The world is bright with beauty, and its days Are filled with music; could we only know True ends from false, and lofty things from low;

If any man, with sleepless care oppressed, On many a night had risen, and addressed His hand to make him out of joy and moan

White are the far-off plains, and white The fading forests grow; The wind dies out along the height,

Along the narrow sandy height I watch them swiftly come and go, Or round the leafless wood,

How still it is here in the woods. The trees Stand motionless, as if they did not dare To stir, lest it should break the spell. The air

By silent forest and field and mossy stone, We come from the wooded hill, and we go to the sea. We labour, and sing sweet songs, but we never moan,

Songs that could span the earth, When leaping thought had stirred them, In many an hour since birth,

O sun, shine hot on the river; For the ice is turning an ashen hue, And the still bright water is looking through,

Out of the grey northwest, where many a day gone by Ye tugged and howled in your tempestuous grot, And evermore the huge frost giants lie,

From this windy bridge at rest, In some former curious hour, We have watched the city's hue,

There is no break in all the wide grey sky, Nor light on any field, and the wind grieves, And talks of death. Where cold grey waters lie

Harsh thoughts, blind angers, and fierce hands, That keep this restless world at strife, Mean passions that, like choking sands,

The sun looks over a little hill And floods the valley with gold - A torrent of gold;

Why weep ye in your innocent toil at all? Sweet little hands, why halt and tremble so? Full many a wrong note falls, but let it fall!

Canst thou not rest, O city, That liest so wide and fair; Shall never an hour bring pity,

Beside the pounding cataracts Of midnight streams unknown to us 'Tis builded in the leafless tracts

Beyond the dusky corn-fields, toward the west, Dotted with farms, beyond the shallow stream, Through drifts of elm with quiet peep and gleam,

Before me grew the human soul, And after I am dead and gone, Through grades of effort and control

Out of the Northland sombre weirds are calling; A shadow falleth southward day by day; Sad summer's arms grow cold; his fire is falling;

"Grotesque!" we said, the moment we espied him, For there he stood, supreme in his conceit, With short ears close together and queer feet

I. Breathers of wisdom won without a quest, Quaint uncouth dreamers, voices high and strange,

O gentle sister spirit, when you smile My soul is like a lonely coral isle, An islet shadowed by a single palm,

Once idly in his hall king Olave sat Pondering, and with his dagger whittled chips; And one drew near to him with austere lips,

Methought I journeyed along ways that led for ever Throughout a happy land where strife and care were dead, And life went by me flowing like a placid river

The King's son walks in the garden fair - Oh, the maiden's heart is merry! He little knows for his toil and care,

Once ye were happy, once by many a shore, Wherever Glooscap's gentle feet might stray, Lulled by his presence like a dream, ye lay

Oh ye, who found in men's brief ways no sign Of strength or help, so cast them forth, and threw Your whole souls up to one ye deemed most true,

Here when the cloudless April days begin, And the quaint crows flock thicker day by day, Filling the forests with a pleasant din,

I. In Nino's chamber not a sound intrudes Upon the midnight's tingling silentness,

The full, clear moon uprose and spread Her cold, pale splendor o'er the sea; A light-strewn path that seemed to lead

A little while, a year agone, I knew her for a romping child, A dimple and a glance that shone

In his dim chapel day by day The organist was wont to play, And please himself with fluted reveries;

Think not, oh master of the well-tilled field, This earth is only thine; for after thee, When all is sown and gathered and put by,

I There came no change from week to week On all the land, but all one way,

Half god, half brute, within the self-same shell, Changers with every hour from dawn till even, Who dream with angels in the gate of heaven,

The darkness brings no quiet here, the light No waking: ever on my blinded brain The flare of lights, the rush, and cry, and strain,

Again the warm bare earth, the noon That hangs upon her healing scars, The midnight round, the great red moon,

Mad with love and laden With immortal pain, Pan pursued a maiden -

Fair little scout, that when the iron year Changes, and the first fleecy clouds deploy, Comest with such a sudden burst of joy,

The earth is the cup of the sun, That he filleth at morning with wine, With the warm, strong wine of his might

It fell on a day I was happy, And the winds, the concave sky, The flowers and the beasts in the meadow

In days, when the fruit of men's labour was sparing, And hearts were weary and nigh to break, A sweet grave man with a beautiful bearing

Friend, though thy soul should burn thee, yet be still. Thoughts were not meant for strife, nor tongues for swords. He that sees clear is gentlest of his words,

All day, all day, round the clacking net The weaver's fingers fly: Gray dreams like frozen mists are set

Far up in the wild and wintery hills in the heart of the cliff-broken woods, Where the mounded drifts lie soft and deep in the noiseless solitudes, The hut of the lonely woodcutter stands, a few rough beams that show

What saw I yesterday walking apart In a leafy place where the cattle wait? Something to keep for a charm in my heart -

O little one, daughter, my dearest, With your smiles and your beautiful curls, And your laughter, the brightest and clearest,

Mother, to whose valiant will, Battling long ago, What the heaping years fulfil,

Though fancy and the might of rhyme, That turneth like the tide, Have borne me many a musing time,

Didst thou not tease and fret me to and fro, Sweet spirit of this summer-circled field, With that quiet voice of thine that would not yield

What are these bustlers at the gate Of now or yesterday, These playthings in the hand of Fate,

All day upon the garden bright The sun shines strong, But in my heart there is no light,

Now being on the eve of death, discharged From every mortal hope and earthly care, I questioned how my soul might best employ

We have not heard the music of the spheres, The song of star to star, but there are sounds More deep than human joy and human tears,

By the Nile, the sacred river, I can see the captive hordes Strain beneath the lash and quiver

Not, not for thee, Beloved child, the burning grasp of life Shall bruise the tender soul. The noise, and strife,

What do poets want with gold, Cringing slaves and cushioned ease; Are not crusts and garments old

Day and night pass over, rounding, Star and cloud and sun, Things of drift and shadow, empty

Why do ye call the poet lonely, Because he dreams in lonely places? He is not desolate, but only

To-night the very horses springing by Toss gold from whitened nostrils. In a dream The streets that narrow to the westward gleam

Life is not all for effort: there are hours, When fancy breaks from the exacting will, And rebel thought takes schoolboy's holiday,

All day between high-curded clouds the sun Shone down like summer on the steaming planks. The long, bright icicles in dwindling ranks

Subtly conscious, all awake, Let us clear our eyes, and break Through the cloudy chrysalis,

The wind-swayed daisies, that on every side Throng the wide fields in whispering companies, Serene and gently smiling like the eyes

The long days came and went; the riotous bees Tore the warm grapes in many a dusty-vine, And men grew faint and thin with too much ease,

O doubts, dull passions, and base fears, That harassed and oppressed the day, Ye poor remorses and vain tears,