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Archibald Lampman - Morning on the Lièvre
Work rating: Low

Far above us where a jay 
   Screams his matins to the day, 
   Capped with gold and amethyst, 
   Like a vapor from the forge 
   Of a giant somewhere hid, 
   Out of hearing of the clang 
   Of his hammer, skirts of mist 
   Slowly up the woody gorge 
   Lift and hang.

  Softly as a cloud we go,
  Sky above and sky below,
  Down the river; and the dip
  Of the paddles scarcely breaks,
  With the little silvery drip
  Of the water as it shakes
  From the blades, the crystal deep
  Of the silence of the morn,
  Of the forest yet asleep;
  And the river reaches borne
  In a mirror, purple gray,
  Sheer away
  To the misty line of light,
  Where the forest and the stream
  In the shadow meet and plight, 
  Like a dream.

  From amid a stretch of reeds, 
  Where the lazy river sucks 
  All the water as it bleeds 
  From a little curling creek, 
  And the muskrats peer and sneak 
  In around the sunken wrecks 
  Of a tree that swept the skies 
  Long ago, 
  On a sudden seven ducks 
  With a splashy rustle rise, 
  Stretching out their seven necks, 
  One before, and two behind, 
  And the others all arow, 
  And as steady as the wind 
  With a swivelling whistle go, 
  Through the purple shadow led, 
  Till we only hear their whir 
  In behind a rocky spur, 
  Just ahead.
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