Duncan Campbell Scott (1862–1947)

SHE is free of the trap and the paddle,

The portage and the trail,

But something behind her savage life

Shines like a fragile veil.

Her dreams are undiscovered,

Shadows trouble her breast,

When the time for resting cometh

Then least is she at rest.

Oft in the morns of winter

When she visits the rabbit snares,

An appearance floats in the crystal air

Beyond the balsam firs.

Oft in the summer mornings

When she strips the nets of fish,

The smell of the dripping net-twine

Gives to her heart a wish.

But she cannot learn the meaning

Of the shadows in her soul,

The lights that break and gather,

The clouds that part and roll.

The reek of rock-built cities,

Where her fathers dwelt of yore,

The gleam of loch and shealing,

The mist on the moor,

Frail traces of kindred kindness,

Of feud by hill and strand,

The heritage of an age-long life

In a legendary land.

She wakes in the stifling wigwam,

Where the air is heavy and wild,

She fears for something or nothing

With the heart of a frightened child.

She sees the stars turn slowly

Past the tangle of the poles,

Through the smoke of the dying embers,

Like the eyes of dead souls.

Her heart is shaken with longing

For the strange still years,

For what she knows and knows not,

For the wells of ancient tears.

A voice calls from the rapids,

Deep, careless, and free,

A voice that is larger than her life

Or than her death shall be.

She covers her face with her blanket,

Her fierce soul hates her breath,

As it cries with a sudden passion

For life or death.

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