To The Ottawa Dear
dark-brown waters full of all the stain ................................................................... Voices of Earth We
have not heard the music of the spheres, There are rivers, there are lakes Little streams, mountain-like peaks to the ever-growing Canadian Emblem maple leaves As I walk the countryside Amidst the trees on the hillside The beauty of the valley I can see, and I can feel There is so much to do and to see In this God-given valley That was created for you And for me I can hear and I can see Birds in the trees As they sing their song of spring To the honking of the geese I can hear water falling From a distant waterfall I can hear the loon To its mate its lonely call I was born and raised In this valley And found none to compare With the beauty I have seen everywhere. Sent by L. E. Jolicoeur .......................................................................... The dark green forests. | M'sieu The Ottawa is a dark stream; The Ottawa is deep. Great Hills along the Ottawa Are wrapped in endless sleep. And, where the purple waters turn To seek the valiant north, At Mattawa I found a road And on it wandered forth. The road was made for free men And fenced alone with wood, And every blossom at its edge Declared that life was good. It wound in love about the rocks, And ‘round and ‘round the trees; It went asearch for loveliness, A vagrant with the breeze. A mile away from Mattawa The road breaks in a clearing; And near by is a whitewashed hut And fields in gold appearing. And from this place came out a maid - A winsome maid of ten - And I have never hope to see A fairer child again. She came along the roadway In that fair summer hour, And softer grew the pine-songs And fairer bloomed each flower. And when she passed she raised her eyes, As bluebells do at dawn, And cried “M’sieu” and curtsied low, And then went swiftly on. My heart, that leaps not lightly now, Thrilled wildly at the word A poem with a lovelier sound I never yet had heard. I would have clasped her to my heart - This little woodland belle. But all I did was blush a bit And stammer “Mademoiselle.” When I went back to Mattawa And thence to Montreal, I heard, on every wandering wind, That little maiden’s call. And when the empty words of men Leave faith a thing forlorn, I’ll think of Mademoiselle’s “M’sieu” And that fair summer morn. The Ottawa is a dark stream; The Ottawa is deep. Great hills along the Ottawa Are wrapped in endless sleep. And when the purple days return Go, all ye weary, north, And find the road to Mattawa And on it wander forth. By Wilson MacDonald Submitted by David P. Rogers
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