Fair Rosseau slumbers in an atmosphere That kisses her to passionless soft dreams. And life lacks nothing, so complete it seems. The velvet air, stirred by some elfin wings, Comes swinging up the waters and then stills Its voice so low that floating by it sings Like distant harps among the distant hills.
Some shadows seeming swung 'twixt cloud and sky, Are countless shores, a symphony of blue.
Some northern sorceress, when day is done, Hovers where cliffs uplift their gaunt grey steeps, Bewitching to vermilion Rosseau's sun, That in a liquid mass of rubies sleeps. The scent of burning leaves, the camp-fire's blaze, The great logs cracking in the brilliant flame, The groups grotesque, on which the firelight plays, Are pictures which Muskoka twilights frame. I hear The owl's uncanny cry, the wild loon's laugh. Send comments to the E. Pauline Johnson Project.