Singing in the Northland, Volume 1

The Brook in February


A snowy path for squirrel and fox,

It winds between the wintry firs.

Snow-muffled are its iron rocks,

And o’er its stillness nothing stirs.



But low, bend low a listening ear!

Beneath the mask of moveless white

A babbling whisper you shall hear

Of birds and blossoms, leaves and light.


– Charles G.D. Roberts (1860-1943)




A Child’s Prayer at Evening


(Domine, cui sunt Pleiades curae)

Father, who keepest

The stars in Thy care,

Me, too, Thy little one,

Childish in prayer,

Keep, as Thou keepest

The soft night through,

Thy long, white lilies

Asleep in Thy dew.



– Charles G.D. Roberts (1860-1943)

Daisy Time


See, the grass is full of stars,

Fallen in their brightness;

Hearts they have of shining gold,

Rays of shining whiteness.



Buttercups have honeyed hearts,

Bees they love the clover,

But I love the daisies’ dance

All the meadow over.



Blow, O blow, you happy winds,

Singing summer’s praises,

Up the field and down the field

A-dancing with the daisies.



– Marjorie Pickthall (1833-1922)




Life (After the French)

O Life, how slight!

A little sweet,

A brief delight,

And then – we meet!



O Life, how vain!

A little spite,

A little pain,

And then – good-night!



– Charles G. D. Roberts




Quiet


Come not the earliest petal here, but only

Wind, cloud, and star,

Lovely and far,

Make it less lonely.



Few are the feet that seek her here, but sleeping

Thoughts sweet as flowers

Linger for hours,

Things winged, yet weeping.



Here in the immortal empire of the grasses,

Time, like one wrong

Note in a song,

With their bloom, passes.



– Marjorie Pickthall




The Star


I think God sang when He had made

A bough of apple bloom,

And placed it close against the sky

To whiten in the gloom.



But, oh, when He had hung a star

Above a blue, blue hill,

I think God in His ecstasy

Was startled . . . and was still.



– Beatrice Redpath




The Dustman


“Dustman, dustman!’

Through the deserted square he cries,

And babies put their rosy fists

Into their eyes.



There’s nothing out of No-man’s-land

So drowsy since the world began,

As “Dustman, dustman,

Dustman.”



He goes his village round at dusk

From door to door, from day to day;

And when the children hear his step

They stop their play.



“Dustman, dustman!”

Far up the street he is descried,

And soberly the twilight games

Are laid aside.



“Dustman, dustman!’

There, Drowsyhead, the old refrain,

“Dustman, dustman!”

It goes again.



Dustman, dustman

Hurry by and let me sleep.

When most I wish for you to come,

You always creep.



Dustman, dustman,

And when I want to play some more,

You never then are farther off

Than the next door.



“Dustman, dustman!”

He beckles down the echoing curb,

A step that neither hopes nor hates

Ever disturb.



“Dustman, dustman!”

He never varies from one pace,

And the monotony of time

Is in his face.



And some day, with more potent dust,

Brought from his home beyond the deep,

And gently scattered on our eyes,

We, too, shall sleep,–



Hearing the call we know so well

Fade softly out as it began,

“Dustman, dustman,

Dustman!”



– Bliss Carman, (1861-1929)