Classic Poem

High to westward lies the city,
Soft upon the pallid blue,
With the storms of half a winter
Packed and sifted through and through.

Spire and tower against the azure,
Deepening as the morning grows,
From the distance faint and slender
Rising each a shaft of rose.

Icy fringes, violet shadows,
Every roof a creamy sheet,
Ridges of gray broken silver
Up and down the misty street.

O'er the roofs the smoke in torrents
Billows like a glimmering sea,
From the city's thousand chimneys
Rolling out tumultuously.

Down the frozen street to market
Come the woodmen team by team,
Squeaking runners, jolting cordwood,
Frost-fringed horses jetting steam.

Some upon the load, some walking,
Down the misty street they come,
With their cheeks as red as flannel,
And their beards as white as foam.

And they swing their arms to warm them —
Ah, the wind is keen we know —
Beating crosswise round the shoulders
Till their fingers sting and glow.

Brothers, let us serve the morning
With a worship glad as meet,
Roll the tuque about our foreheads,
Bind the snowshoes to our feet.

All along the north the mountains,
Hoary with the sifted snow,
Gleaming front and powdered forest,
Overlook the sweep below.

Where the frosted creamy splendour
Of the morning slants and shines
On smooth fields and sheeted rivers,
Stretching to the western pines.

Past the bridge and past the river,
Comrades, striding, let us wind,
Over marsh and meadow, leaving
Miles of braided track behind.

Praising with deep tongue the season,
Master in whose caustic ken,
We become this winter morning
Equal with the lords of men.