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Duncan Campbell Scott - The Forsaken
Work rating: Low

I 
   Once in the winter
   Out on a lake
   In the heart of the north-land,
   Far from the Fort
   And far from the hunters,
   A Chippewa woman
   With her sick baby,
   Crouched in the last hours
   Of a great storm.
  Frozen and hungry,
  She fished through the ice
  With a line of the twisted
  Bark of the cedar,
  And a rabbit-bone hook
  Polished and barbed;
  Fished with the bare hook
  All through the wild day,
  Fished and caught nothing;
  While the young chieftain
  Tugged at her breasts,
  Or slept in the lacings
  Of the warm tikanagan.
  All the lake-surface
  Streamed with the hissing
  Of millions of iceflakes
  Hurled by the wind;
  Behind her the round
  Of a lonely island
  Roared like a fire
  With the voice of the storm
  In the deeps of the cedars.
  Valiant, unshaken,
  She took of her own flesh,
  Baited the fish-hook,
  Drew in a gray-trout,
  Drew in his fellows,
  Heaped them beside her,
  Dead in the snow.
  Valiant, unshaken,
  She faced the long distance,
  Wolf-haunted and lonely,
  Sure of her goal
  And the life of her dear one:
  Tramped for two days,
  On the third in the morning,
  Saw the strong bulk
  Of the Fort by the river,
  Saw the wood-smoke
  Hand soft in the spruces,
  Heard the keen yelp
  Of the ravenous huskies
  Fighting for whitefish:
  Then she had rest.

II

  Years and years after,
  When she was old and withered,
  When her son was an old man
  And his children filled with vigour,
  They came in their northern tour on the verge of winter,
  To an island in a lonely lake.
  There one night they camped, and on the morrow
  Gathered their kettles and birch-bark
  Their rabbit-skin robes and their mink-traps,
  Launched their canoes and slunk away through the islands,
  Left her alone forever,
  Without a word of farewell,
  Because she was old and useless,
  Like a paddle broken and warped,
  Or a pole that was splintered.
  Then, without a sigh,
  Valiant, unshaken,
  She smoothed her dark locks under her kerchief,
  Composed her shawl in state,
  Then folded her hands ridged with sinews and corded with veins,
  Folded them across her breasts spent with the nourishment of children,
  Gazed at the sky past the tops of the cedars,
  Saw two spangled nights arise out of the twilight,
  Saw two days go by filled with the tranquil sunshine,
  Saw, without pain, or dread, or even a moment of longing:
  Then on the third great night there came thronging and thronging
  Millions of snowflakes out of a windless cloud;
  They covered her close with a beautiful crystal shroud,
  Covered her deep and silent.
  But in the frost of the dawn,
  Up from the life below,
  Rose a column of breath
  Through a tiny cleft in the snow,
  Fragile, delicately drawn,
  Wavering with its own weakness,
  In the wilderness a sign of the spirit,
  Persisting still in the sight of the sun
  Till day was done.
  Then all light was gathered up by the hand of God and hid in His breast,
  Then there was born a silence deeper than silence,
  Then she had rest.
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