Helen M. Merrill (1866–1951)

WHENCE bloweth the Canada wind?

Not out of the west, though the west winds bear

Lightsome hours and the joy of spring,

And the heavenly blue of a wild bird’s wing;

For the heart of the violet scents the air,

And the scent of the violet is all too fair

Its flowers in my hair to bind—

The west wind is of the lea,

And palls on the soul of me.

Whence bloweth the Canada wind?

Oh, not from the south, for the south wind brings

Summer and dim, sweet, forest deeps,

And a bird in the wild wood hidden keeps,

And mellow songs in the green light sings;

And flower, and song, and mystical things

My soul with dreamings blind—

The south wind is of the sun,

My soul is for a day undone.

Whence bloweth the Canada wind?

Not out of the east, for the east wind chills

With its dank, grey mists and its storms of rain,

And dawn is foredooming again and again;

Noon’s dripping sky with greyness fills,

And night is black on the sodden hills,

And never a star I find—

The east wind is of the sea,

And drives to the heart of me.

Whence bloweth the Canada wind?

Its path is the way to the world’s white rim,

The strange white tracts of the barren zone,

Immutable, luminous, wild and lone;

Spaces enduring through aeons dim,

Veiling the sea, and the blue sea’s brim,

Striving for ever, yet never free,

Fetters which ever bind—

The Canada wind is the keen north wind,

The wind of the secret sea,

And quickens the soul of me.