Acadiensis/Volume 1/Number 2/A Marshland River
A Marshland River.
The river banks red-bright beneath the sun
Lay empty to the breeze, which like a stream
Flowed softly downward to the tide out-run,
Sweeping across the flats that idly dream,
Then drifted out to sea. Short while the tide
Lay moveless where the river opened wide
Its mouth unto the bay with thirsty throat
Agape and red for the long quenching draught
Of foamy brine. Shortwhile the anchored boat
Drew not upon the chain, and all the craft
Lay to against the turning of the flood;
Low tide marked by the heron and her brood.
Without a sign of finger or of lip,
The tide turned inward from the outer sea
The hidden anchor feels the drawing ship,
The fisher craft let all their sails go free.
Up to the river rises the quick flood,
Into the marsh's veins like pulsing blood,
Gateways of ancient mould; thence to the hoar
Gray granite hills of primal time to store
The tidal elements. Thus has the deep
Made him a beast of burden, treading slow
Through centuries with toil that cannot sleep:
And front unyielding to the winter's snow;
Nor lingering under all the summer's sweep
Of hot alluring rays; bound to no power
In earth or heaven, save that which times the hour
Of night and day to lift his reddened knees
And mighty shoulders out of Ocean's mine
To tread the marshy stairway of the sea,
And strew his burden at the secret sign.
Blind eyes that know no pity and no tear,
Nor wist that in the silent centuries
Of plodding to the mountain's stony knees,
What weary miles of needless footway bear
His mark of winding road and broken way.
And when the sea will crowd upon his heels,
And level o'er the marshes his array
Of waters, till the farthest dyke-top feels
The sibilance of wave, the river lost
In the supremer power, bends like the beast
And gropes shortwhile, and tumbles, tossed
And tripped by his great strength which ceased
Without the single purpose that must guide.
But soon again the river treads the plain,
Whether to saunter, or to turn back,
Heedless of loss, unconscious of the gain,
Each cycle narrowing his track.
The purpose of his labor is complete,
When man shall reap the labor of his feet,
And lay his hand to mark his utmost way,
And bar where now his step shall cease to stray.
Lay empty to the breeze, which like a stream
Flowed softly downward to the tide out-run,
Sweeping across the flats that idly dream,
Then drifted out to sea. Short while the tide
Lay moveless where the river opened wide
Its mouth unto the bay with thirsty throat
Agape and red for the long quenching draught
Of foamy brine. Shortwhile the anchored boat
Drew not upon the chain, and all the craft
Lay to against the turning of the flood;
Low tide marked by the heron and her brood.
Without a sign of finger or of lip,
The tide turned inward from the outer sea
The hidden anchor feels the drawing ship,
The fisher craft let all their sails go free.
Up to the river rises the quick flood,
Into the marsh's veins like pulsing blood,
Gateways of ancient mould; thence to the hoar
Gray granite hills of primal time to store
The tidal elements. Thus has the deep
Made him a beast of burden, treading slow
Through centuries with toil that cannot sleep:
And front unyielding to the winter's snow;
Nor lingering under all the summer's sweep
Of hot alluring rays; bound to no power
In earth or heaven, save that which times the hour
Of night and day to lift his reddened knees
And mighty shoulders out of Ocean's mine
To tread the marshy stairway of the sea,
And strew his burden at the secret sign.
Blind eyes that know no pity and no tear,
Nor wist that in the silent centuries
Of plodding to the mountain's stony knees,
What weary miles of needless footway bear
His mark of winding road and broken way.
And when the sea will crowd upon his heels,
And level o'er the marshes his array
Of waters, till the farthest dyke-top feels
The sibilance of wave, the river lost
In the supremer power, bends like the beast
And gropes shortwhile, and tumbles, tossed
And tripped by his great strength which ceased
Without the single purpose that must guide.
But soon again the river treads the plain,
Whether to saunter, or to turn back,
Heedless of loss, unconscious of the gain,
Each cycle narrowing his track.
The purpose of his labor is complete,
When man shall reap the labor of his feet,
And lay his hand to mark his utmost way,
And bar where now his step shall cease to stray.
Wolfsville, N. S.