Low Tide on Grand Pré: A Book of Lyrics — Low Tide on Grand Pré
LOW TIDE ON GRAND PRÉ
LOW TIDE ON GRAND PRÉ:
A BOOK OF LYRICS:
BY
BLISS CARMAN
[Illustration: logo] CHARLES L.
WEBSTER AND COMPANY
PUBLISHERS NEW YORK MDCCCXCIII
COPYRIGHT, 1893,
BY BLISS CARMAN.
(_All rights reserved.
_) PRESS OF
JENKINS & MCCOWAN,
NEW YORK.
------------------------------------------------------------------------ The poems in this volume have been collected with reference to their similarity of tone.
They are variations on a single theme, more or less aptly suggested by the title, _Low Tide on Grand Pré_.
It seemed better to bring together between the same covers only those pieces of work which happened to be in the same key, rather than to publish a larger book of more uncertain aim.
B.
C.
_By Grand Pré, September, 1893. _ CONTENTS
PAGE
LOW TIDE ON GRAND PRÉ 11
WHY 15
THE UNRETURNING 18
A WINDFLOWER 19
IN LYRIC SEASON 21
THE PENSIONERS 23
AT THE VOICE OF A BIRD 27
WHEN THE GUELDER ROSES BLOOM 31
SEVEN THINGS 44
A SEA CHILD 47
PULVIS ET UMBRA 48
THROUGH THE TWILIGHT 61
CARNATIONS IN WINTER 63
A NORTHERN VIGIL 65
THE EAVESDROPPER 73
IN APPLE TIME 77
WANDERER 79
AFOOT 89
WAYFARING 94
THE END OF THE TRAIL 103
THE VAGABONDS 111
WHITHER 118
TO
S.
M. C.
_Spiritus haeres sit patriae quae tristia nescit.
_ LOW TIDE ON GRAND PRÉ
The sun goes down, and over all These barren reaches by the tide Such unelusive glories fall, I almost dream they yet will bide Until the coming of the tide.
And yet I know that not for us, By any ecstasy of dream, He lingers to keep luminous A little while the grievous stream, Which frets, uncomforted of dream— A grievous stream, that to and fro Athrough the fields of Acadie Goes wandering, as if to know Why one beloved face should be So long from home and Acadie.
Was it a year or lives ago We took the grasses in our hands, And caught the summer flying low Over the waving meadow lands, And held it there between our hands?
The while the river at our feet— A drowsy inland meadow stream— At set of sun the after-heat Made running gold, and in the gleam We freed our birch upon the stream.
There down along the elms at dusk We lifted dripping blade to drift, Through twilight scented fine like musk, Where night and gloom awhile uplift, Nor sunder soul and soul adrift.
And that we took into our hands Spirit of life or subtler thing— Breathed on us there, and loosed the bands Of death, and taught us, whispering, The secret of some wonder-thing.
Then all your face grew light, and seemed To hold the shadow of the sun;
The evening faltered, and I deemed That time was ripe, and years had done Their wheeling underneath the sun.
So all desire and all regret, And fear and memory, were naught;
One to remember or forget The keen delight our hands had caught;
Morrow and yesterday were naught.
The night has fallen, and the tide....
Now and again comes drifting home, Across these aching barrens wide, A sigh like driven wind or foam: In grief the flood is bursting home.
WHY
