ON Lac Sainte Ireneé the morn <br />Lay rimmed with pine and roped with mist. <br />The old moon hid her silver horn <br />In shadow that the sun had kissed. <br />One went by like a wandering soul, <br />And followed ever, <br />By reed and river, <br />The silent canoe of the lake patrol. <br /> <br />On Lac Sainte Ireneé the noon <br />Lay wolf-like waiting by her hills. <br />No voice was heard but the sad loon <br />And the wild-throated whip-poor-wills. <br />But one went by on the bitter flaw, <br />And followed ever, <br />By rapid and river, <br />The swift canoe of the white man's law. <br /> <br />On Lac Sainte Ireneé the moose <br />Broke from his balsams, breathing hot. <br />The bittern and the great wild goose <br />Pled south before the sudden shot. <br />One fled with them like a hunted soul, <br />And followed ever, <br />By ford and river, <br />The little canoe of the lake patrol. <br /> <br />On Lac Sainte Ireneé the blue <br />Vast arch of night was starred and deep. <br />No footsteps scared the caribou <br />Nor waked the wolverine from his sleep. <br />Loosed indeed was the hunted soul, <br />And homeward ever, <br />By rapid and river, <br />Slipped the canoe of the lake patrol.<br /><br />Marjorie Lowry Christie Pickthall<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/on-lac-sainte-irene/
