September in the Laurentian Hills
AlreadyWinter in his sombre round,Before his time hath touched these hills austereWith lonely flame. Last night, without a sound,The ghostly frost walked out by wood and mere.And now the sumach curls his frond of fire,The aspen-tree reluctant drops his gold,And down the gullies the North’s wild vibrant lyreRouses the bitter armies of the cold.O’er this short afternoon the night draws down,With ominous chill, across these regions bleak;Wind-beaten gold, the sunset fades aroundThe purple loneliness of crag and peak,Leaving the world an iron house whereinNor love nor life nor hope hath ever been.
AlreadyWinter in his sombre round,Before his time hath touched these hills austereWith lonely flame. Last night, without a sound,The ghostly frost walked out by wood and mere.And now the sumach curls his frond of fire,The aspen-tree reluctant drops his gold,And down the gullies the North’s wild vibrant lyreRouses the bitter armies of the cold.O’er this short afternoon the night draws down,With ominous chill, across these regions bleak;Wind-beaten gold, the sunset fades aroundThe purple loneliness of crag and peak,Leaving the world an iron house whereinNor love nor life nor hope hath ever been.
AlreadyWinter in his sombre round,Before his time hath touched these hills austereWith lonely flame. Last night, without a sound,The ghostly frost walked out by wood and mere.And now the sumach curls his frond of fire,The aspen-tree reluctant drops his gold,And down the gullies the North’s wild vibrant lyreRouses the bitter armies of the cold.
O’er this short afternoon the night draws down,With ominous chill, across these regions bleak;Wind-beaten gold, the sunset fades aroundThe purple loneliness of crag and peak,Leaving the world an iron house whereinNor love nor life nor hope hath ever been.