Among the Millet

by Archibald Lampman




Out of the Northland sombre weirds are calling;
    A shadow falleth southward day by day;
Sad summerís arms grow cold; his fire is falling;
    His feet draw back to give the stern one way.

It is the voice and shadow of the slayer,                                      5
    Slayer of loves, sweet world, slayer of dreams;
Make sad thy voice with sombre plaint and prayer;
    Make gray thy woods, and darken all they streams.

Black grows the river, blacker drifts the eddy:
    The sky is grey; the woods are cold below:                          10
Oh make the bosom, and thy sad lips ready,
    For the cold kisses of the folding snow.