CRY OF THE WOUNDED LOON.
A dirge was on the waters,
Each wave a muffled bell;
Against the west a hunter strolled,
Nor heeded he the knell.
I heard a cripple calling,
In one unwonted cry of pain,
And down the sorrow of the wind,
The darkness and the river-rain,
The cry went wandering, alone,
Through gloomings of abysmal space,
Till, midst a weary waste of marsh
We met as lovers, face to face.
A dirge hung on the waters,
As from a convent bell,
Against the west a hunter strolled,
Nor wist he of the knell,
But sobbing, sobbing down the years,
Through all my joys and all my tears,
Along the silence comes to me
That Ave Mary of the sea.
Written at Cut River, 1920.