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<h2>AT THE FERRY</h2> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> On such a day the shrunken stream Spends its last water and runs dry; Clouds like far turrets in a dream Stand baseless in the burning sky. On such a day at every rod The toilers in the hay-field halt, With dripping brows, and the parched sod Yields to the crushing foot like salt. </div> <div class="stanza"> But here a little wind astir, Seen waterward in jetting lines, From yonder hillside topped with fir Comes pungent with the breath of pines; And here when all the noon hangs still, White-hot upon the city tiles, A perfume and a wintry chill Breathe from the yellow lumber-piles. </div> <div class="stanza"> [33]And all day long there falls a blur Of noises upon listless ears, The rumble of the trams, the stir Of barges at the clacking piers; The champ of wheels, the crash of steam, And ever, without change or stay, The drone, as through a troubled dream, Of waters falling far away. </div> <div class="stanza"> A tug-boat up the farther shore Half pants, half whistles, in her draught; The cadence of a creaking oar Falls drowsily; a corded raft Creeps slowly in the noonday gleam, And wheresoe'er a shadow sleeps The men lie by, or half a-dream, Stand leaning at the idle sweeps. </div> <div class="stanza"> And all day long in the quiet bay The eddying amber depths retard, And hold, as in a ring, at play, The heavy saw-logs notched and scarred; And yonder between cape and shoal, Where the long currents swing and shift, An aged punt-man with his pole Is searching in the parted drift. </div> <div class="stanza"> At moments from the distant glare The murmur of a railway steals Round yonder jutting point the air Is beaten with the puff of wheels;[34] And here at hand an open mill, Strong clamor at perpetual drive, With changing chant, now hoarse, now shrill, Keeps dinning like a mighty hive. </div> <div class="stanza"> A furnace over field and mead, The rounding noon hangs hard and white; Into the gathering heats recede The hollows of the Chelsea height; But under all to one quiet tune, A spirit in cool depths withdrawn, With logs, and dust, and wrack bestrewn, The stately river journeys on. </div> <div class="stanza"> I watch the swinging currents go Far down to where, enclosed and piled, The logs crowd, and the Gatineau Comes rushing from the northern wild. I see the long low point, where close The shore-lines, and the waters end, I watch the barges pass in rows That vanish at the tapering bend. </div> <div class="stanza"> I see as at the noon's pale core— A shadow that lifts clear and floats— The cabin'd village round the shore, The landing and the fringe of boats; Faint films of smoke that curl and wreathe, And upward with the like desire The vast gray church that seems to breathe In heaven with its dreaming spire. </div> <div class="stanza"> [35]And there the last blue boundaries rise, That guard within their compass furled This plot of earth: beyond them lies The mystery of the echoing world; And still my thought goes on, and yields New vision and new joy to me, Far peopled hills, and ancient fields, And cities by the crested sea. </div> <div class="stanza"> I see no more the barges pass, Nor mark the ripple round the pier, And all the uproar, mass on mass, Falls dead upon a vacant ear. Beyond the tumult of the mills, And all the city's sound and strife, Beyond the waste, beyond the hills, I look far out and dream of life. </div> </div> <hr style="width: 65%;" /> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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