The woods grow wild, and from the rising shore

The cool wind creeps, the faint wood odours steal;

Like ghosts adown the river's blackening floor

The misty fumes begin to creep and reel.

Once more I leave you, wandering toward the night,

Sweet home, sweet heart, that would have held me in;

Whither I go I know not, and the light

Is faint before, and rest is hard to win.

Ah sweet ye were and near to heaven's gate;

But youth is blind and wisdom comes too late.

Blacker and loftier grow the woods, and hark!

The freshening roar! The chute is near us now,

And dim the canyon grows, and inky dark

The water whispering from the birchen prow.

One long last look, and many a sad adieu,

While eyes can see and heart can feel you yet,

I leave sweet home and sweeter hearts to you,

A prayer for Picaud, one for pale Lisette,

A kiss for Pierre, my little Jacques, and thee,

A sigh for Jeanne, a sob for Verginie.

 Prev. P 58/184 next