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Snow

White are the far-off plains, and white

The fading forests grow;

The wind dies out along the height,

And denser still the snow,

A gathering weight on roof and tree,

Falls down scarce audibly.

The road before me smooths and fills

Apace, and all about

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Archibald Lampman

A January Morning

The glittering roofs are still with frost; each worn

Black chimney builds into the quiet sky

Its curling pile to crumble silently.

Far out to westward on the edge of morn,

The slender misty city towers up-borne

Glimmer faint rose against the pallid blue;

And yonder on those northern hills, the hue

Of amethyst, hang fleeces dull as horn.

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Archibald Lampman

The Largest Life

I lie upon my bed and hear and see.

The moon is rising through the glistening trees;

And momently a great and sombre breeze,

With a vast voice returning fitfully,

Comes like a deep-toned grief, and stirs in me,

Somehow, by some inexplicable art,

A sense of my soul's strangeness, and its part

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Archibald Lampman

In November (2)

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 spot,

And, all about, the vacant plot,

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Archibald Lampman

In November (1)

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 softly through with snow,

Where the last ploughman follows still his row,

Turning black furrows through the whitening field.

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Archibald Lampman

Winter Uplands

The frost that stings like fire upon my cheek,

The loneliness of this forsaken ground,

The long white drift upon whose powdered peak

I sit in the great silence as one bound;

The rippled sheet of snow where the wind blew

Across the open fields for miles ahead;

The far-off city towered and roofed in blue

A tender line upon the western red;

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Archibald Lampman

Winter-Solitude

I saw the city's towers on a luminous pale-gray sky;

Beyond them a hill of the softest mistiest green,

With naught but frost and the coming of night between,

And a long thin cloud above the colour of August rye.

I sat in the midst of a plain on my snowshoes with bended knee

Where the thin wind stung my cheeks,

And the hard snow ran in little ripples and peaks,

Like the fretted floor of a white and petrified sea.

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Archibald Lampman

Midnight

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.

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Archibald Lampman

Winter Evening

To-night the very horses springing by

Toss gold from whitened nostrils. In a dream

The streets that narrow to the westward gleam

Like rows of golden palaces; and high

From all the crowded chimneys tower and die

A thousand aureoles. Down in the west

The brimming plains beneath the sunset rest,

One burning sea of gold. Soon, soon shall fly

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Archibald Lampman

The Railway Station

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 touch, eyes that are dim with pain:

I see the hoarse wheels turn, and the great train

Move labouring out into the bourneless night.

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Archibald Lampman

A Thunderstorm

A moment the wild swallows like a flight

Of withered gust-caught leaves, serenely high,

Toss in the windrack up the muttering sky.

The leaves hang still. Above the weird twilight,

The hurrying centres of the storm unite

And spreading with huge trunk and rolling fringe,

Each wheeled upon its own tremendous hinge,

Tower darkening on. And now from heaven's height,

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Archibald Lampman

In October

Along the waste, a great way off, the pines,

Like tall slim priests of storm, stand up and bar

The low long strip of dolorous red that lines

The under west, where wet winds moan afar.

The cornfields all are brown, and brown the meadows

With the blown leaves' wind-heaped traceries,

And the brown thistle stems that cast no shadows,

And bear no bloom for bees.

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Archibald Lampman