In a Grand Pré Garden

In a garden over Grand Pré, dewy in the morning sun,
Here in earliest September with the summer nearly done.
Musing on the lovely world and all its beauties, one by one!

Bluets, marigolds, and asters, scarlet poppies, purple phlox, —
Who knows where the key is hidden to those frail yet perfect locks
In the tacit doors of being where the soul stands still and knocks?

There is Blomidon’s blue sea-wall, set to guard the turbid straits
Where the racing tides have entry; but who keeps for us the gates
In the mighty range of silence where man’s spirit calls and waits?

Where is Glooscaap? There’s a legend of that saviour of the West,
The benign one, whose all-wisdom loved beasts well, though men the best,
Whom the tribes of Minas leaned on, and their villages had rest.

Once the lodges were defenceless, all the warriors being gone
On a hunting or adventure. Like a panther on a fawn,
On the helpless stole a war-band, ambushed to attack at dawn.

But with night came Glooscaap. Sleeping he surprised them; waved his bow;
Through the summer leaves descended a great frost, as white as snow;
Sealed their slumber to eternal peace and stillness long ago.

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