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- THE sun goes down, and over all
- These barren reaches by the tide
- Such unelusive glories fall,
- I almost dream they yet will bide
- Until the coming of the tide.
- And yet I know that not for us,
- By any ecstasy of dream,
- He lingers to keep luminous
- A little while the grievous stream,
- Which frets, uncomforted of dream--
- A grievous stream, that to and fro
- Athrough the fields of Acadie
- Goes wandering, as if to know
- Why one beloved face should be
- So long from home and Acadie.
- Was it a year or lives ago
- We took the grasses in our hands,
- And caught the summer flying low
- Over the waving meadow lands,
- And held it there between our hands?
- And while the river at our feet--
- A drowsy inland meadow stream--
- At set of sun the after-heat
- Made running-gold, and in the gleam
- We freed our birch upon the stream.
- There down along the elms at dusk
- We lifted dripping blade to drift,
- Through twilight scented fine like musk,
- Where night and gloom awhile uplift,
- Nor sunder soul and soul adrift.
- And that we took into our hands
- Spirit of life or subtler thing--
- Breathed on us there, and loosed the bands
- Of death, and taught us, whispering,
- The secret of some wonder-thing.
- Then all your face grew light, and seemed
- To hold the shadow of the sun;
- The evening faltered, and I deemed
- That time was ripe, and years had done
- Their wheeling underneath the sun.
- So all desire and all regret,
- And fear and memory, were naught;
- One to remember or forget
- The keen delight our hands had caught;
- Morrow and yesterday were naught.
- The night has fallen, and the tide . . .
- Now and again comes drifting home,
- Across these aching barrens wide,
- A sigh like driven wind or foam:
- In grief the flood is bursting home.
- Bliss Carman
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