“The Butterfly,” by Margaret Avison

Avison, Margaret. “The Butterfly.” Other Canadians: An Anthology of the New Poetry in Canada, 1940-1946. Ed. John Sutherland. No publication information. 30. Pamphlet.

The Butterfly

     An uproar,
   a spruce-green sky, bound in iron.
   the murky sea running a sulphur scum,
I saw a butterfly, suddenly.
   It clung between the ribs of the storm, wavering,
and flung against the battering bone-wind.
   I remember it, glued to the grit of that rain-strewn beach
that glowered around it, swallowed its startled design
   in the larger irridescence of unstrung dark.

That wild, sour air, those miles of crouching forest, that moth
   when all enveloping space
   is a thin glass glove, swirling with storm
tempt us to stare, and seize analogies.
The Voice that stilled the sea of Galilee
   overstoned by the new peace, the fierce subhuman peace
of such an east sky, blanched like Eternity.

The meaning of the moth, even the smashed moth, the meaning
   of the moth—
can’t we stab that one angle into the curve of space
   that weeps so unrelenting, far above,
   towards the subhuman swamp of under-dark?

“A Minister of Grace,” by Sara Jeannette Duncan

Duncan, Sara.  “A Minister of Grace.” Rose-Belford’s Canadian Monthly and National Review 5 (Dec 1880): 627.

A Minister of Grace

We call thee Sympathy, in our rude tongue,
Discerning not they lovelier, heaven-giv’n name
Whereby the angels know thee. In no wise
May we command thee—thou art subtly born
Of soul-similitude, or common grief;
Yet souls for lack of thee must daily die!
Thou lurkest in the warmth of clasping hands,
The inner life of human brotherhood,
And often shinest glorious in a tear!
Thou sharest half, and soothest all, their pain,
And from the depths men mutely cry to thee,
All empty-hearted if thou comest not!

“Unrealized,” by Sheila Barbour

“Sydney Martin.” “Unrealized.” “Young Authors’ Section: Poet’s Corner.” Winnipeg Free Press (28 Jan. 1939) 6.

Another contribution to the Winnipeg Free Press Young Authors’ Section, established to publish “contributions by young people from the age of 13 years and upwards.” A remarkable number of later-to-be well-known poets started their days in these pages.

Of this poem, Poet’s Corner editor W.E.I. said: “We like Sydney’s clear and quiet lines of dream-song. Something—some light, some landscape, some panorama we cannot explain—lingers in our minds after we finish reading her poem, and we read it again in an effort to recapture this scape of Dreamland.”

Unrealized

One day for freedom
Underneath the sky,
Though the hours crowd by.
One day for wonder
Between night and morn,
One day for faring
Wither dreams are borne.
One day for finding
Beauty e’re it die,
One day—in which to find
Sunlight, and rain, and wind.

One day for losing
Bitter memories,
One day for going
Where the spirit please.
One day for having
What will soon be lost,
One day for drifting
As the leaves are tossed.
One day for finding
Fairer fantasies,
Oh! for some coming day
To spirit sense away.

“Lost Autumn,” by Verna Loveday Harden

Harden, Verna Loveday [Verna Bessie Bentley]. Postlude to an Era. Toronto: Crucible, 1940. 13.

“Running Waters,” by Amy Clare Giffin

Giffin, A. Clare.  “Running Waters.” University Magazine 8 (1909): 407.

Running Waters

There were four rivers in Eden old:
(Running waters may never cease)
They fed the apple’s mellowing gold,
And the red rose tree in the garden mould,
And the grasses that hid the serpent cold.
(The rivers are restless and know not peace.)

There are four rivers that flow in Hell:
(Running waters may never cease)
They circle the lovers that erst loved well,
And the aimless sinners no man may tell,
And the souls that struggled in vain and fell.
(Here by the rivers may none find peace.)

“The Moth,” by P. K. Page

Page, P. K. “The Moth.” Canadian Poetry Calendar, 1939. Rpt. from The Observer (London, UK) December 1934.

The Moth

I caught a moth,
a silver moth,
that fluttered in my hair;
and when I peeped within my hand
I found but star-dust there.

“Lady of the Night,” by Marian Waldman

[Waldman, Marian.] “Lady of the Night.” “Young Authors’ Section: Poet’s Corner.” Winnipeg Free Press (21 Jan. 1939) 6.

Another contribution to the Winnipeg Free Press Young Authors’ Section, established to publish “contributions by young people from the age of 13 years and upwards.” A remarkable number of later-to-be well-known poets started their days in these pages.

Lady of the Night

Beside our house two white topped mounds keep silent guard always,
And in the valley ‘tween the two a laughing streamlet plays;
I love it in the daytime—it springs and bubbles so,
And playful winds its surface calm will lightly blow—
But more I love it when the night is bright with fire-glow.

From the shores of the mystic rivulet a lovely lady glides—
Her body gowned in moonbeams, her hair back-swept by tides,
While in her bosom silver-clad a glorious starlet hides.

I know you would not see her there, and yet somehow, I think
When you and I long since have broke the life-stream’s fragile link,
My lonely lady still will sing upon the river’s brink.

“To Snow… or Not to Snow!” by Mona Gould

Gould, Mona. “To Snow… or Not to Snow!” Gossip! Verse. Toronto, 1949. 6.

To Snow… or Not to Snow!

Feather down soft deep snow
Feather down… I implore you.
The part of me that’s Poet
Simply adores you!
The part of me that’s “working girl!”
Equally abhors you!

Snow is like thistledown
Filigree-ing trees;
But waiting for street cars…
It’s wet ankles and
Knees!

“Autumn,” by Sara Jeannette Duncan

Duncan, Sara.  “Autumn.” Rose-Belford’s Canadian Monthly and National Review 5 (Nov 1880): 494.

“Only a Baby Gone!” By M. E. Muchall

Muchall, M. E. “Only a Baby Gone!” Canadian Monthly 10 (Oct. 1876) 310.

Mary E. Muchall was the daughter of Catharine Parr Traill, author of The Backwoods of Canada (1836), The Female Emigrant’s Guide (1854), Canadian Wild Flowers (1865), Studies of Plant Life in Canada (1885), and Canada’s first novel for children, Canadian Crusoes (1851). Muchall was also thus the niece of Susanna Moodie, author of the fairly well-known immigrant text Roughing It in the Bush (1852).

“Only a Baby Gone!”

Only a little empty cot
Where baby was laid to sleep;
But sore is my heart when I see it now,
And what can I do but weep?

Only a soiled and broken toy,
She used in her baby play;
I cannot bear to see it now,
Let it be hidden away.

And here lies another thing,
Recalling he sunny past;
Only a scarlet coral chain,
Her hands have so often claspt.

Only a baby’s smile
Is missed in our home to-day;
And the sound of her pattering feet,
And her rippling laugh at play.

Only a baby gone?
Only the loss of these?
but when will our home seem bright again?
Oh, when will our hearts find ease?

Just when faith can behold
Our baby from sin set free;
Forever safe in the far off fold,
Ont he shores of the crystal sea.