Athrough the noonday blue
Sliding our light canoe,

Or floating, hushed, at eve,

What tonic days were they
Where shy streams dart and play,—

Where rivers brown and strong
As caribou bound along,

Subside, and like a snake
Wind to the quiet lake!

We’ve paddled furtively,

Have stolen, and held our breath,
Thro’ coverts still as death,—

Have left with wing unstirred
The brooding phoebe-bird,

For love of his clear pipe
We’ve flushed the zigzag snipe,—

Have chased in wilful mood

Have spied the antlered moose
Cropping the young green spruce,

And watched him till betrayed
By the kingfisher’s sharp tirade.

And dropping craft and heed
Have bid our paddles speed.

Where the mad rapids chafe

With sinew tense, nerve keen,
Shot thro’ the roar, and seen,

With spirit wild as theirs,
The white waves leap like hares.

With influences serene
Our blood and brain washed clean,

We’ve idled down the breast

And marked the winds, the birds,
The bees, the far-off herds,

Into a drowsy tune
Transmute the afternoon.

Have opened with their kiss,
We need no balm but this,—

A little space for dreams

’Mid task and toil, a space
To dream on Nature’s face!