Pauline Johnson

Sleep, with her tender balm, her touch so kind, Has passed me by; Afar I see her vesture, velvet-lined, Float silently; O! Sleep, my tired eyes had need of thee! Is thy sweet kiss not meant to-night for me?

The pine trees whispering, the heron's cry, The plover's passing wing, his lullaby.

August is laughing across the sky, Laughing, while paddle, canoe and I Drift, drift, Where the hills uplift On either side of the current swift.