Athwart the beauty and the breast
  Of purpling airs they twirl and twist,
Then float away to some far rest,
  Leaving the skies all colour-kiss’t—­
A glorious and a golden West
  That greets the Lifting of the Mist.

THE HOMING BEE

You are belted with gold, little brother of mine,
    Yellow gold, like the sun
That spills in the west, as a chalice of wine
    When feasting is done.

You are gossamer-winged, little brother of mine,
    Tissue winged, like the mist
That broods where the marshes melt into a line
    Of vapour sun-kissed.

You are laden with sweets, little brother of mine,
    Flower sweets, like the touch
Of hands we have longed for, of arms that entwine,
    Of lips that love much.

You are better than I, little brother of mine,
    Than I, human-souled,
For you bring from the blossoms and red summer shine,
    For others, your gold.

THE LOST LAGOON

It is dusk on the Lost Lagoon,
And we two dreaming the dusk away,
Beneath the drift of a twilight grey,
Beneath the drowse of an ending day,
And the curve of a golden moon.

It is dark in the Lost Lagoon,
And gone are the depths of haunting blue,
The grouping gulls, and the old canoe,
The singing firs, and the dusk and—­you,
And gone is the golden moon.

O! lure of the Lost Lagoon,—­
I dream to-night that my paddle blurs
The purple shade where the seaweed stirs,
I hear the call of the singing firs
In the hush of the golden moon.

THE TRAIN DOGS

Out of the night and the north;
  Savage of breed and of bone,
Shaggy and swift comes the yelping band,
Freighters of fur from the voiceless land
  That sleeps in the Arctic zone.

Laden with skins from the north,
  Beaver and bear and raccoon,
Marten and mink from the polar belts,
Otter and ermine and sable pelts—­
  The spoils of the hunter’s moon.

Out of the night and the north,
  Sinewy, fearless and fleet,
Urging the pack through the pathless snow,
The Indian driver, calling low,
  Follows with moccasined feet.

Ships of the night and the north,
  Freighters on prairies and plains,
Carrying cargoes from field and flood
They scent the trail through their wild red blood,
  The wolfish blood in their veins.

THE KING’S CONSORT

I

Love, was it yesternoon, or years agone,
    You took in yours my hands,
And placed me close beside you on the throne
    Of Oriental lands?

The truant hour came back at dawn to-day,
    Across the hemispheres,
And bade my sleeping soul retrace its way
    These many hundred years.