The Oxford Book of Canadian Verse
SpringJean Blewett (18621934)
O
And the dead river lies, all its laughter stilled within it, fast asleep.
Give never a murmur or sigh of woe—they are dead—no dead thing grieves.
For all things tender, and all things sweet, have been touched by the gruesome chill.
To lay its bloom on the dead river’s lips, that have kissed them all so oft.
A ladder of gold for the Maid of Grace—the strong, the subtle, the fond!
Thrown over her shoulders bonnie and bare—see the sap in the great trees start!
A stirring and spreading of something fair—the dawn is chasing the night!
The old earth knows her, and thrills to her touch, as she claims her own again.
With the crocus hiding its satin head in her bosom warm and fair;
Spring, with enough of God in herself to make the dead arise!
The dead river stirs,—ah, that lingering kiss is making its heart to thrill.
Frightened a moment, then rushing away, calling and laughing aloud!
And wakened birds are striving to send their songs to the Gates of Gold.