She walks in beauty, like the night Of cloudless climes and starry skies; And all that’s best of dark and bright Meet in her aspect and her eyes; Thus mellowed to that tender light Which heaven to gaudy day denies. One shade the more, one ray the less, Had half impaired the nameless grace Which waves in every raven
Rain at Muchalat, rain at Sooke, And rain, they say, from Yale to Skeena, And the skid-roads blind, and never a look Of the Coast Range blue over Malaspina, And west winds keener Than jack-knife blades, And rocks grown greener With the long drip-drip from the cedar shades On the drenched deep soil where the footsteps suck, And the camp
Night fell one year ago, like this. He had been writing steadily. Among these dusky walls of books, How bright he looked, intense as flame! Suddenly he paused, The firelight in his hair, And said, “The time has come to go” I took his hand; We watched the logs burn out;