"The Railway Station" by Archibald Lampman

Montreal West train station, 1950s

 

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.

So many souls within its dim recesses,

    So many bright, so many mournful eyes:

Mine eyes that watch grow fixed with dreams and guesses;

    What threads of life, what hidden histories,

What sweet or passionate dreams and dark distresses,

    What unknown thoughts, what various agonies!

"A January Morning" by Archibald Lampman

 

Archibald Lampman

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,

Glimmer faint rose against the pallid blue;

And yonder, those northern hills, the hue

Of amethyst, hang fleeces dull as horn,

And here behind me come the woodman's sleighs

With shouts and clamorous squeakings; might and main

Up the steep slope the horses stamp and strain,

Urged on by hoarse-tongued drivers--cheeks ablaze,

Iced beards and frozen eyelids--team by team,

With frost-fringed flanks, and nostrils jetting steam.

"The Wood by the Sea" by Duncan Campbell Scott

 

In Ottawa

I dwell in the wood that is dark and kind
  But afar off tolls the main,
Afar, far off I hear the wind,
  And the roving of the rain.

The shade is dark as a palmer's hood,
  The air with balm is bland:
But I wish the trees that breathe in the wood
  Were ashes in God's hand.

The pines are weary of holding nests,
  Are aweary of casting shade;
Wearily smoulder the resin crests
  In the pungent gloom of the glade.

Weary are all the birds of sleep,
  The nests are weary of wings,
The whole wood yearns to the swaying deep,
  The mother of restful things.

The wood is very old and still,
  So still when the dead cones fall,
Near in the vale or away on the hill,
  You can hear them one and all.

And their falling wearies me;
  If mine were the will of God,–oh, then
The wood should tramp to the sounding sea,
  Like a marching army of men!

But I dwell in the wood that is dark and kind,
  Afar off tolls the main;
Afar, far off I hear the wind
  And the roving of the rain.