Archibald Lampman

From where I sit,
I see the stars, And down the chilly floor The moon between the frozen bars Is glimmering dim and hoar
Without in many a peakèd mound The glinting snowdrifts lie; There is no voice or living sound; The embers slowly die...

The darkness brings no quiet here, the light No waking: ever on my blinded brain The flare of lights, the rush, and cry, and strain, The engines' scream, the hiss and thunder smite: I see the hurrying crowds, the clasp, the flight, Faces that touc...

From this windy bridge at rest,
In some former curious hour,
We have watched the city's hue,
All along the orange west,

All day upon the garden
The suns shines strong,
But in my heart there is no light,
Or any song

O sun, shine hot on the river;
For the ice is turning an ashen hue,
And the still bright water is looking through,
And the myriad streams are greeting

The long days came and went; the riotous
Tore the warm grapes in many a dusty vine,
And men grew faint and thin with too much ease,
And Winter gave no sign:

The earth is the cup of the sun,
That he filleth at morning with wine,
With the warm, strong wine of his
From the vintage of gold and of light,

Out of the gray northwest, where many a day gone by Ye tugged and howled in your tempestuous grot, And evermore the huge frost giants lie, Your wizard guards in vigilance unforgot, Out of the gray northwest, for now the bonds are riven, On wide wh...

Mother, to whose valiant
Battling long ago,
What the heaping years fulfil,
Light and song,

The point is turned; the twilight shadow
The wheeling stream, the soft receding shore,
And on our ears from deep among the
Breaks now the rapid's sudden quickening roar

Along the waste, a great way off, the pines,
Like tall slim priests of storm, stand up and
The low long strip of dolorous red that
The under west, where wet winds moan afar

White are the far-off plains, and
The fading forests grow;
The wind dies out along the height,
And denser still the snow,

O doubts, dull passions, and base fears,
That harassed and oppressed the day,
Ye poor remorses and vain tears,
That shook this house of clay:

From plains that reel to southward, dim,
The road runs by me white and bare;
Up the steep hill it seems to
Beyond, and melt into the glare

Breathers of wisdom won without a quest,
Quaint uncouth dreamers, voices high and strange,
Flutists of land where beauty hath no change,
And wintery grief is a forgotten guest,

It fell on a day I was happy,
And the winds, the concave sky,
The flowers and the beasts in the
Seemed happy even as I;