IN THE SHADOWSBy E.

Pauline JohnsonI am sailing to the leeward,Where the current runs to seawardSoft and slow,Where the sleeping river grassesBrush my paddle as it passesTo and fro.

On the shore the heat is shakingAll the golden sands awakingIn the cove;And the quaint sand-piper, wingingO’er the shallows, ceases singingWhen I move.

On the water’s idle pillowSleeps the overhanging willow,Green and cool;Where the rushes lift their burnishedOval heads from out the tarnishedEmerald pool.

Where the very silence slumbers,Water lilies grow in numbers,Pure and pale;All the morning they have rested,Amber crowned, and pearly crested,Fair and frail.

Here, impossible romances,Indefinable sweet fancies,Cluster round;But they do not mar the sweetnessOf this still September fleetnessWith a sound.

I can scarce discern the meetingOf the shore and stream retreating,So remote;For the laggard river, dozing,Only wakes from its reposingWhere I float.

Where the river mists are rising,All the foliage baptizingWith their spray;There the sun gleams far and faintly,With a shadow soft and saintly,In its ray.

And the perfume of some burningFar-off brushwood, ever turningTo exhaleAll its smoky fragrance dying,In the arms of evening lying,Where I sail.

My canoe is growing lazy,In the atmosphere so hazy,While I dream;Half in slumber I am guiding,Eastward indistinctly glidingDown the stream.

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