"Night, and a flame in the embers
When the seal of the years was set;
When the almond bough remembers
How shall my heart forget?"
Passing mention has been made of the names of Ethelwyn Wetherald and Pauline Johnson, but the work of these poets is too distinctive to avoid some reference to it. Miss Wetherald has published some half-dozen books of verse, all made up chiefly of short lyrics, and all possessing an individual quality which may well be called unique. Here is one of her strongest poems, entitled Prodigal Yet:
"Muck of the sty, reek of the trough,
Blackened my brow where all might see,
Yet while I was a great way off
My Father ran with compassion for me.
"He put on my hand a ring of gold
(There's no escape from a ring, they say);
He put on my neck a chain to hold
My passionate spirit from breaking away.
"He put on my feet the shoes that miss
No chance to tread in the narrow path;
He pressed on my lips the burning kiss
That scorches deeper than fires of wrath.
"He filled my body with meat and wine,
He flooded my heart with love's white light!
Yet deep in the mire, with sensuous swine,
I long—God help me!—to wallow to-night.
"Muck of the sty, reek of the trough,
Blacken my soul where none may see.
Father, I yet am a long way off—
Come quickly. Lord! Have compassion on me!"
It has been indicated that Pauline Johnson, whose death a few years ago is still fresh in the memory of those who knew her and her work, was Indian by birth and her poetry is marked by the vigour and virility which such a fact would imply. How Red Men Can Die and The Cry of an Indian Wife are perhaps her best-known poems, but they are too long to quote here. Following, however, is a little poem, The Honey Bee, which shows Miss Johnson's keen feeling for colour, as well as her fine lyric quality:
"You are belted with gold, little brother of mine,
Yellow gold, like the sun
That spills in the west, as a chalice of wine
When feasting is done.