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The Old Canoe

The Old Canoe image
Parent Issue
Public Domain
OCR Text

Where the rocks are gray, and the shore is steep, Aud the water below looks dark and deep ; Where the rugged pine, in its lonely pride, Leans ylooraily over the murky tide ; WheD the reeds aud rushes are tal] and rank, And the weeds grow tlnck on the winding bank ; Where the shadow is heavy the whole day through, Lay at its moorings the old canoe. ïhe useless paddies are idly dropped, Like a sea-bird's wings that the storm hath lopped, And crossed on the rising, one o'er one, Like folded hands when the work is done ; While busily back and forth between, ïhe spider stretches his silvery screen, And the solemn owl, with his dull "too hoo," Settles down on the side of the old canoe. The stern, half snnk in the slimy wave, Rots slowly away in its living grave, And the green moss creeps o'er its dull decay Hidirig the moldering dustaway, Like the hand that plants o'er the tomb a flower, Or the ivy that, mantles the fallen tower, While many a blossom of liveliest hue Springs up under the stern of the old cauoe. ïhe currentless waters are dead and still - Bnt the light winds playwith theboat at will, And lazily in and out again, It floats the length of its rusty chain, Like the weary march of the hands of time, That meet and" part at the noontide chime ; And the shore is kissed at each tui n anew, By the dripping bow of the old canoe. O, many a time with a careless hand I have pulled it away fïom the pebbly strand, Aud paddled it dowïi where the stream runs quick - Where the whirls are wild and the eddies are thick- And laughed as 1 leaned o'er tlio rocking side, And looked below in the rocking tide, To see if. the faces and boats were two, That were minored back from the old canoe. But now as T lean o'er the crunïbling side And look below in the sluggish tide, The face that I see there is graver grown, And the laugh that I hear has a sober tone, And the hands that leut to the light skifl wings, Have grtiwn familiar with sterner things, But I love to think of the hours that flew, As I rocked where the whirls their wild spray threw, Ere the blossoms waved, or tlie green grass grew O'er the moldering stern of the old canoe.


Old News
Michigan Argus