To The Ottawa

Dear dark-brown waters full of all the stain Of sombre spruce-woods and the forest fens, Laden with sound from far-off northern glens Where winds and craggy cataracts complain, Voices of streams and mountain pines astrain, The pines that brood above the roaring foam Of La Montagne or Les Erables; thine home Is distant yet, a shleter far to gain. Aye still to eastward, past the shadowy lake And the long slopes of Rigaud toward the sun, The mightier stream, thy comrade, waits for thee, The beryl waters that espouse and take Thine in thei deep embrace, and bear thee on In that great bridal journey to the sea.