The oriole sings in the greening grove
As if he were half-way waiting,
The rosebuds peep from their hoods of green,
Timid and hesitating.
The rain comes down in a torrent sweep
And the nights smell warm and piney,
The garden thrives, but the tender shoots
Are yellow-green and tiny.
Then a flash of sun on a waiting hill,
Streams laugh that erst were quiet,
The sky smiles down with a dazzling blue
And the woods run mad with riot.
~~ Paul Laurence Dunbar (1872-1906) from Lippincott's, September 1903 [Poem is in the public domain worldwide]
Summer From what lost centuries that were sweet before,Comes this long wave of Summer, bursting whiteIn shivered apple-blossoms on the shoreThat is our homeland for a day and night!A wide, hushed spirit floats above the foam,A sweetness that was ancient flower and face,When wine-red poppies stained the walls of Rome,And daisies starred those summer fields of Thrace.
Something survives and haunts the leafy shade,Some fragrance that was petals, once, and lips,And whispered, brief avowals that they made,—Borne hither, now, in vague, invisible ships,Whose weightless cargoes, poured upon the air,Are flowers forgot, and faces that were fair. ~~ David Morton (1886-1957) from Ships in Harbour, and other poems, 1921 [Poem is in the public domain in Canada and the United States]
Awake, my country, the hour is great with change!
Under this gloom which yet obscures the land,
From ice-blue strait and stern Laurentian range
To where giant peaks our western bounds command,
A deep voice stirs, vibrating in men's ears
As if their own hearts throbbed that thunder forth,
A sound wherein who hearkens wisely hears
The voice of the desire of this strong North,—
This North whose heart of fire
Yet knows not its desire
Clearly, but dreams, and murmurs in the dream.
The hour of dreams is done. Lo, on the hills the gleam!
Awake, my country, the hour of dreams is done!
Doubt not, nor dread the greatness of thy fate.
Tho' faint souls fear the keen confronting sun,
And fain would bid the morn of splendor wait;
Tho' dreamers, rapt in starry visions, cry
"Lo, yon thy future, yon thy faith, thy fame!"
And stretch vain hands to stars, thy fame is nigh,
Here in Canadian hearth, and home, and name;—
This name which yet shall grow
Till all the nations know
Us for a patriot people, heart and hand
Loyal to our native earth, our own Canadian land!
O strong hearts, guarding the birthright of our glory,
Worth your best blood this heritage that ye guard!
These mighty streams resplendent with our story,
These iron coasts by rage of seas unjarred,—
What fields of peace these bulwarks well secure!
What vales of plenty those calm floods supply!
Shall not our love this rough, sweet land make sure,
Her bounds preserve inviolate, though we die?
O strong hearts of the North,
Let flame your loyalty forth,
And put the craven and base to an open shame,
Till earth shall know the Child of Nations by her name!
~~ Charles G.D. Roberts (1860-1943) from In Divers Tones, 1886
[Poem is in the public domain in Canada, the United States, and the European Union]
The moon and stars are making love tonight –
As grey clouds stretch to shield them from our gaze,
They burn with passion, warmly dripping light,
Entrancing us below their silver rays;
We hear low whispering, see the gentle motion
Of trees and wind entwined in an embrace;
We watch the river, mighty as an ocean,
Thrust its waters in the still lake's face;
Around us frogs and crickets serenade
And birds call to their mates, as man to wife;
A glorious vision's everywhere displayed,
The miracle of life creating life.
My dear, amid this splendour, hear my plea:
If all the world can love, then why not we?
~~ George J. Dance, 2020
[All rights reserved - used with permission]
O Phoebus! down the western sky
Far hence diffuse thy burning ray,
Thy light to distant worlds supply,
And wake them to the cares of day.
Come, gentle Eve, the friend of Care,
Come, Cynthia, lovely queen of night!
Refresh me with a cooling breeze,
And chear me with a lambent light.
Lay me where o'er the verdant ground
Her living carpet Nature spreads;
Where the green bower, with roses crown'd,
In showers its fragrant foliage sheds.
Improve the peaceful hour with wine,
Let music die along the grove;
Around the bowl let myrtles twine,
And every strain be tun'd to Love.
Come, STELLA, queen of all my heart!
Come, born to fill its vast desires!
Thy looks perpetual joys impart,
Thy voice perpetual love inspires.
While, all my wish and thine complete,
By turns we languish, and we burn,
Let sighing gales our sighs repeat,
Our murmurs murmuring brooks return.
Let me, when Nature calls to rest,
And blushing skies the morn foretell,
Sink on the down of STELLA's breast,
And bid the waking world farewell.
~~ John Hawkesworth (1720-1773) from A Collection of Poems in Four Volumes; by several hands, 1770
[Poem is in the public domain worldwide]
