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Song My Paddle Sings

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<h3 id="id00165" style="margin-top: 3em">THE SONG MY PADDLE SINGS</h3> West wind, blow from your prairie nest, Blow from the mountains, blow from the west. The sail is idle, the sailor too; O! wind of the west, we wait for you. Blow, blow! I have wooed you so, But never a favour you bestow. You rock your cradle the hills between, But scorn to notice my white lateen. I stow the sail, unship the mast: I wooed you long but my wooing's past; My paddle will lull you into rest. O! drowsy wind of the drowsy west, Sleep, sleep, By your mountain steep, Or down where the prairie grasses sweep! Now fold in slumber your laggard wings, For soft is the song my paddle sings. August is laughing across the sky, Laughing while paddle, canoe and I, Drift, drift, Where the hills uplift On either side of the current swift. The river rolls in its rocky bed; My paddle is plying its way ahead; Dip, dip, While the waters flip In foam as over their breast we slip. And oh, the river runs swifter now; The eddies circle about my bow. Swirl, swirl! How the ripples curl In many a dangerous pool awhirl! And forward far the rapids roar, Fretting their margin for evermore. Dash, dash, With a mighty crash, They seethe, and boil, and bound, and splash. Be strong, O paddle! be brave, canoe! The reckless waves you must plunge into. Reel, reel. On your trembling keel, But never a fear my craft will feel. We've raced the rapid, we're far ahead! The river slips through its silent bed. Sway, sway, As the bubbles spray And fall in tinkling tunes away. And up on the hills against the sky, A fir tree rocking its lullaby, Swings, swings, Its emerald wings, Swelling the song that my paddle sings. <h3 id="id00175" style="margin-top: 3em">THE CAMPER</h3> Night 'neath the northern skies, lone, black, and grim: Naught but the starlight lies 'twixt heaven, and him. Of man no need has he, of God, no prayer; He and his Deity are brothers there. Above his bivouac the firs fling down Through branches gaunt and black, their needles brown. Afar some mountain streams, rockbound and fleet, Sing themselves through his dreams in cadence sweet, The pine trees whispering, the heron's cry, The plover's passing wing, his lullaby. And blinking overhead the white stars keep Watch o'er his hemlock bed—his sinless sleep. <h3 id="id00182" style="margin-top: 3em">AT HUSKING TIME</h3> At husking time the tassel fades To brown above the yellow blades, Whose rustling sheath enswathes the corn That bursts its chrysalis in scorn Longer to lie in prison shades. Among the merry lads and maids The creaking ox-cart slowly wades Twixt stalks and stubble, sacked and torn At husking time. The prying pilot crow persuades The flock to join in thieving raids; The sly racoon with craft inborn His portion steals; from plenty's horn His pouch the saucy chipmunk lades At husking time. <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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