Frederick George Scott KNOWLEDGE THEY were islanders, our fathers were, And the prey. So they built them ships of wood, and sailed Grew powerful on the globe, And islanders yet in a way are we, Unknown, unconquered yet, Of the wise. But we'll never do aught, I know, unless Of the battle and storm and cold; When men would hold us back, There are rocks out there in that wide, wide sea, 'Neath many a darkling stream, And souls that once sailed out bold and free Have been carried away in a dream ; HEAT Archibald Lampman FROM plains that reel to southward, dim, Beyond, and melt into the glare. By his cart's side the wagoner Of white dust puffing to his knees. From sky to sky on either hand, Is the sole thing that seems to move In all the heat-held land. Beyond me in the fields the sun Soaks in the grass and hath his will ; I count the marguerites one by one; Even the buttercups are still. On the brook yonder not a breath Disturbs the spider or the midge. The water-bugs draw close beneath The cool gloom of the bridge. Where the far elm-tree shadows flood Dark patches in the burning grass, The cows, each with her peaceful cud, Lie waiting for the heat to pass. From somewhere on the slope near by Into the pale depth of the noon A wandering thrush slides leisurely His thin revolving tune. In intervals of dreams I hear The cricket from the droughty ground; I lift mine eyes sometimes to gaze : And yet to me not this or that Is always sharp or always sweet; In the sloped shadow of my hat I lean at rest, and drain the heat; |