Andrew Macphail, comp. The Book of Sorrow. 1916.
First SnowJohn Talon-Lespérance (18351891)
T
Along the gloomy avenue of pines,
And the grey mist hangs heavily in lines
Above the torrent’s flow.
The caw of blackbirds fleeing from the cold;
And buzz of insects, hiding in the mould,
Under the ruined mill.
Is garlanded with wreaths of fleecy white;
And the stark poplar stands, a Northland sprite,
Muffled in snowy hood.
Who slept ’neath summer roses, cold flakes rest,
And filter icy drops upon thy breast,—
Thy tender breast,—my own.
Yes, on my sunken heart, distils the snow,
Chilling the warmth and life that in it glow,
In pity for my dead!
And April rays have thawed the frost-bound slope,
O Rita, shall this heart to light reope,
With the flowers on thy tomb!