| |
| THE CHICKADEE came in the morning: | |
| Over the Lake hung snow-clouds—piling, | |
| Wheeling for the signal—for the signal | |
| Of the lake gods coming to battle! | |
| |
| Up and down the West Coast went the Life Guards, | 5 |
| Sniffing at the air and frowning at the sky; | |
| Peering out to westward, muttering to their Pard— | |
| To their Pard, the surf seeping high. | |
| |
| While the Winter came out of the North | |
| Stripped naked, cruel as a bloodless sword! | 10 |
| |
| I carried in wood and I pumped me some water; | |
| I cleaned out the chimney and doubled my quilts. | |
| Then I phoned in to town and bid my pals adieu. | |
| We cursed at the weather; promised our God a prayer. | |
| |
| For the Winter, the frozen Hell of the West Coast, | 15 |
| Like a weasel was sneaking down the shore. | |
| |
| Like the wraith of a profaned tomb it came. | |
| I could see it twisting and writhing round the Point, | |
| Round Little Sauble Point, where the pines and spruces | |
| Whine in a gale like the over-taut string of a viol. | 20 |
| |
| Out among the snow-clouds swept its scythe-like breath, | |
| Fretting the pitching waves to frothy frenzies: | |
| Catching their boiling crests in a creamy ice: | |
| And where it passed the moisture was turned to snow. | |
| |
| At dusk, with a keening wrench and thrust, it left the Lake; | 25 |
| Snarled at the Land; froze the West Coast dead! | |
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