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An Impression

I heard the city time-bells call

Far off in hollow towers,

And one by one with measured fall

Count out the old dead hours;

I felt the march, the silent press

Of time, and held my breath;

I saw the haggard dreadfulness

Of dim old age and death.

by Archibald Lampman

An Autumn Landscape

No wind there is that either pipes or moans;

The fields are cold and still; the sky

Is covered with a blue-gray sheet

Of motionless cloud; and at my feet

The river, curling softly by,

Whispers and dimples round its quiet gray stones.

Along the chill green slope that dips and heaves

The road runs rough and silent, lined

by Archibald Lampman

An October Sunset

One moment, the slim cloudflakes seem to lean

With their sad sunward faces aureoled,

And longing lips set downward brightening

To take the last sweet hand kiss of the king,

Gone down beyond the closing west acold;

Paying no reverence to the slender queen,

That like a curved olive leaf of gold

Hangs low in heaven, rounded toward sun,

by Archibald Lampman

A Song

Oh night and sleep,

Ye are so soft and deep,

I am so weary, come ye soon to me.

Oh hours that creep,

With so much time to weep,

I am so tired, can ye no swifter be?

Come, night, anear;

I'll whisper in thine ear

by Archibald Lampman

Unrest

All day upon the garden bright

The suns shines strong,

But in my heart there is no light,

Or any song.

Voices of merry life go by,

Adown the street;

But I am weary of the cry

And drift of feet.

by Archibald Lampman

Among The Timothy

Long hours ago, while yet the morn was blithe,

Nor sharp athirst had drunk the beaded dew,

A reaper came, and swung his cradled scythe

Around this stump, and, shearing slowly, drew

Far round among the clover, ripe for hay,

A circle clean and grey;

And here among the scented swathes that gleam,

Mixed with dead daisies, it is sweet to lie

by Archibald Lampman

Outlook

Not to be conquered by these headlong days,

But to stand free: to keep the mind at brood

On life's deep meaning, nature's altitude

Of loveliness, and time's mysterious ways;

At every thought and deed to clear the haze

Out of our eyes, considering only this,

What man, what life, what love, what beauty is,

This is to live, and win the final praise.

by Archibald Lampman

Storm

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 white wings your thongless flight is driven,

That lulls but resteth not.

And all the gray day long, and all the dense wild night,

by Archibald Lampman

April Night

How deep the April night is in its noon,

The hopeful, solemn, many-murmured night!

The earth lies hushed with expectation; bright

Above the world's dark border burns the moon,

Yellow and large; from forest floorways, strewn

With flowers, and fields that tingle with new birth,

The moist smell of the unimprisoned earth

Come up, a sigh, a haunting promise. Soon,

by Archibald Lampman

Sunset

From this windy bridge at rest,

In some former curious hour,

We have watched the city's hue,

All along the orange west,

Cupola and pointed tower,

Darken into solid blue.

Tho' the biting north wind breaks

Full across this drifted hold,

by Archibald Lampman

To my Mother

Mother, to whose valiant will

Battling long ago,

What the heaping years fulfil,

Light and song, I owe;

Send my little book afield,

Fronting praise or blame

With the shining flag and shield

Of your name.

by Archibald Lampman

The Frogs

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,

Sweet murmurers of everlasting rest,

For whom glad days have ever yet to run,

And moments are as aeons, and the sun

by Archibald Lampman