Fires of Driftwood | Page 5

snappy cur,
Smell of high-tide and of newcut fir,
Smell of low-tide,
fish, weed!--I swear
I love every blessed smell that's there--
For,
aeons ago when the sea began,
My soul was the soul of a sailorman.
Down at the docks--where the ships come in,
And the endless trails of
the sea begin,
Where the shining wake of a steamer's track
Is barred
by the tow of the tugboats black,
Where slim yachts dip to the singing
spray
And a gay wind whistles the world away--
Here sad ships lie
which will sail no more,
But new ships build on the noisy shore,

And always the breath of the wind and tide
Whispers the lure of the
sea outside,
Till now and to-morrow and yesterday
Are linked by
the spell of the faraway!
Down at the docks--when the morning's new
And the air is gold and
the distance blue,
There's a pull at the heart! But best of all
Is to see
the sun shrink, red and small,
While the fog steals in (more surely
fleet
Than the smacks that run from her white-shod feet)
And
clamours of startled calls arise
From bewildered ships that have lost
their eyes;
The fog horn bellows its deep-mouthed shout,
The little
lights on the shore blur out
And strange, dim shapes pass wistfully

With a secret tide to a secret sea.
Lake Louise
I THINK that when the Master Jeweler tells
His beads of beauty over,
seeking there
One gem to name as most supremely fair,
To you He
turns, O lake of hidden wells!
So very lovely are you, Lake Louise,
The stars which crown your
lifted peaks at even
Mistake you for a little sea in heaven
And
nightly launch their shining argosies.
From shore to dim-lit shore a ripple slips,
The happy sigh of faintly
stirring night
Where safe she sleeps upon this virgin height
Captive

of dream and smiling with white lips.
Surely a spell, creation-old, was made
For you, O lake of silences,
that all
Earth's fretting voices here should muted fall,
As if a finger
on their lips were laid!
The Gatekeeper
THE sunlight falls on old Quebec,
A city framed of rose and gold,

An ancient gem more beautiful
In that its beauty waxes old.
O Pearl
of Cities! I would set
You higher in our diadem,
And higher yet and
higher yet,
That generations still to be
May kindle at your history!
'Twas here that gallant Champlain stood
And gazed upon this mighty
stream,
These towering rock-walls, buttressed high--
A gateway to
a land of dream;
And all his silent men stood near
While the great
fleur-de-lis fell free,
(Too awe-struck they to raise a cheer)
And
while the shining folds outspread
The sunset burned a sudden red.
Here paced the haughty Frontenac,
His great heart torn with pride and
pain,
His clear eye dimming as it swept
The land he might not see
again,
This infant world, this strange New France
Dropped down as
by some vagrant wind
Upon the New World's vast expanse,

Threatened yet safe! Through storm and stress
Time's challenge to
the wilderness.
Here, when to ease her tangled skein
Fate cut her threads and formed
anew
The pattern of the thing she planned
And red war slipped the
shuttle through,
Montcalm met Wolfe! The bitter strife
Of flag and
flag was ended here--
And every man who gave his life
Gave it that
now one flag may wave,
One nation rise upon his grave!
The twilight falls on old Quebec
And in the purple shines a star,

And on her citadel lies peace
More powerful than armies are.

O fair
dream city! Ebb and flow
Of race feuds vex no more your walls.


Can they of old see this? and know
That, even as they dreamed, you
stand
Gatekeeper of a peace-filled land!
The Bridge Builder
OF old the Winds came romping down,
Oh, wild and free were they!

They bent the prairie grasses low
And made a place to play.
Then, that the gods might hear their voice
On purple days of spring,

They sought the tossing, pine-clad slope
And made a place to sing.
Tired at last of song and play,
They found a canyon deep
And in its
echoing silences
They made a place to weep.
Man came, a small and feeble thing,
And looked upon the plain.

"Lo, this is mine," he said, and set
A seal of golden grain.
Upon the mountain slopes he gazed,
Where the great pine trees grow,

Then gashed their mighty sides and laid
Their singing branches
low.
He clung upon the canyon's ledge
And from its topmost ridge,

Above its vast and awful deeps,
He built himself a bridge.
A bauble in the light of day,
New gilded by the sun,
It seemed like
some great, golden web
By giant spider spun!
The homeless winds came rushing down--
Oh they were wild and
free!
And angry for their stolen plain
And for their felled pine tree--
And angry--angry most of all
For that brave bridge of gold!
With
deep-mouthed shout they hurtled down
To tear it from its hold--
The girders shrieked, the cables strained
And shuddered at the roar--

Yet, when the winds had passed, the bridge
Held firmly as before!

Still fairy-like and frail it shone
Against the sunset's glow--
But one,
the builder of the bridge,
Lay silent, far below!
The Prairie School
THE sweet west wind, the prairie school a