Archibald Lampman

Oh earth, oh dewy mother, breathe on
Something of all thy beauty and thy might,
Us that are part of day, but most of night,
Not strong like thee, but ever burdened

The leafless forests slowly yield To the thick-driving snow
A little while And night shall darken down
In shouting file The woodmen's carts go by me homeward-wheeled, Past the thin fading stubbles, half concealed, Now golden-gray, sowed ...

Now overhead,
Where the rivulet loiters and stops,
The bittersweet hangs from the
Of the alders and

With loitering step and quiet eye, Beneath the low November sky, I wandered in the woods, and found A clearing, where the broken ground Was scattered with black stumps and briers, And the old wreck of forest fires
It was a bleak and sandy spo...

Long, long ago, it seems, this summer
That pale-browed April passed with pensive
Through the frore woods, and from its frost-bound
Woke the arbutus with her silver horn;

There is singing of birds in the deep wet woods,
In the heart of the listening solitudes,
Pewees, and thrushes, and sparrows, not few,
And all the notes of their throats are true

To the distance
Ah, the distance
Blue and broad and dim
Peace is not in burgh or meadow,