  The sun’s red pulses beat, Full prodigal of heat, Full lavish of its lustre unrepressed; But we have drifted far From where his kisses are, And in this landward-lying shade we let our paddles rest. The river, deep and still, The maple-mantled hill, The little yellow beach whereon we lie, The puffs of heated breeze, All sweetly whisper—These Are days that only come in a Canadian July. So, silently we two Lounge in our still canoe, Nor fate, nor fortune matters to us now: So long as we alone May call this dream our own, The breeze may die, the sail may droop, we care not when or how. Against the thwart, near by, Inactively you lie, And all too near my arm your temple bends. Your indolently crude, Abandoned attitude, Is one of ease and art, in which a perfect languor blends. Your costume, loose and light, Leaves unconcealed your might Of muscle, half suspected, half defined; And falling well aside, Your vesture opens wide, Above your splendid sunburnt throat that pulses unconfined. With easy unreserve, Across the gunwale’s curve, Your arm superb is lying, brown and bare; Your hand just touches mine With import firm and fine, (I kiss the very wind that blows about your tumbled hair). Ah! Dear, I am unwise In echoing your eyes Whene’er they leave their far off gaze, and turn To melt and blur my sight; For every other light Is servile to your cloud-grey eyes, wherein cloud shadows burn. But once the silence breaks, But once your ardour wakes To words that humanize this lotus-land; So perfect and complete Those burning words and sweet, So perfect is the single kiss your lips lay on my hand. The paddles lie disused, The fitful breeze abused, Has dropped to slumber, with no after-blow; And hearts will pay the cost, For you and I have lost, More than the homeward blowing wind that died an hour ago. |
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