The Oxford Book of Canadian Verse
The Song My Paddle SingsEmily Pauline Johnson (18611913)
W
Blow from the mountains, blow from the west.
The sail is idle, the sailor too;
Oh! 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 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 mountains steep,
Or down where the prairie grasses sweep,
Now fold in slumber your laggard wings,
For soft is the song my paddle sings.
Laughing while paddle, canoe and I
Drift, drift,
Where the hills uplift
On either side of the current swift.
My paddle is plying its way ahead,
Dip, dip,
When the waters flip
In foam as over their breast we slip.
The eddies circle about my bow;
Swirl, swirl,
How the ripples curl
In many a dangerous pool awhirl!
Fretting their margin for evermore;
Dash, dash,
With a mighty crash,
They seethe and boil and bound and splash.
The reckless waves you must plunge into.
Reel, reel,
On your trembling keel,
But never a fear my craft will feel.
The river slips through its silent bed.
Sway, sway,
As the bubbles spray
And fall in tinkling tunes away.
A fir-tree rocking its lullaby
Swings, swings,
Its emerald wings,
Swelling the song that my paddle sings.