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Home  »  The Oxford Book of Canadian Verse  »  Charles Mair (1838–1927)

The Oxford Book of Canadian Verse

Stanzas from ‘To a Morning Cloud’

Charles Mair (1838–1927)

O GOLDEN shape! Fair, full-blown flow’r of heaven!

Gift of the dawn and far-possessing sea!

Thou foster-child of sunshine and the free

Wild air of summer, wherefore art thou given

To mock us with delights which quickly flee

Th’ inviting of our souls? Art thou, O God!

Offended that thy weary children groan,

And wither in their anguish at thy rod,

And think it but small ill to walk alone

On this thine earth, wishing their cares away,

Yet finding them grow deadlier day by day?

Oh, ’tis enough that the sharp solstice brings

Numb snow and frost to bite us to the heart;

That devilish pain and sickness smite apart

Ease and keen pleasure in the face of things.

Those gifts from heaven could we take athwart

Our little eager paths, and bear the cross

Meekly; yet they are nought to these; hope dies

And leaves us desolate, and love is loss,

And hatred burns our bones, and mercy flies

Our sundering souls, and progress funeral

Towards the love that reigns and rules o’er all.

Our pain hath no dismissal, and our joys

But speed us to our ashes. In life’s charm

There lifts a cold, intolerable arm

Which smites the very infant at its ploys.

Our comfort wastes, and fair forms come to harm—

Naught lasts but sorrow, all things else decay,

And time is full of losing and forgetting,

Our pleasure is as iron and rusts away,

Our days are grief, and scarcely worth their setting,

Wherein there is repose and slumber deep,

And therefore are we thankful for our sleep.

We all are thankful for a little sleep,

For therein there is peace and easy death,

And solace for our sad, impatient breath.

Perchance therein we lose ourselves, and keep

Part of an ageless silence; yet one saith

We are but born to linger and to fear,

To feel harsh fleeting time and aimless woe.

Th’ inscrutable decree which brought us here

Makes myriads wretched, and shall keep them so

Till death uplifts the bars for those who wait

And yearn along the soundless gulfs of fate.

Still let us wait beneath the glorious sun,

And, be his light or strengthened or subdued,

Let light come to our eyes, for it is good

To see the small flow’rs open one by one,

And see the wild wings fleeting through the wood,

They grow and perish uncomplainingly,

And blameless live and end their blameless years,

And mayhap we are blind, and cannot see

The rainbow shining in a mist of tears;

And mayhap we are dull, and cannot feel

The touch which strengthens and the lips which heal.