SeptemberSeptember’s here with her golden hours And a halo of golden bloom The trees now gay in their living hues Give no thought to their nearing doom. The birds all gather to wing their flight To shores more sunny and kind: As I watch they quietly file away Wild longings stir me, left behind. As the summer’s joys begin to fade And Nature’s work grows old My spirit is bound with fearing dread Of an old age, lonely and cold. I envy the bees and butterflies, No knowing have they of this ghost, They glory in sun and revel in flowers To them life is pleasure at most.
[A Soft Evening Breeze]After a day of parching heat I knew a boundless delight; I lay on grass so cool and sweet While the moon ensilvered the night. Lulled to peace by a restless breeze, By notes that soothing sound When piped by frogs on their fairy flutes, A contentment deep I found.
Green ChristmasChristmas time! With naked ground And trees which seem so cold When wonting of their cover white And softly beautiful. No virgin feathers fill the aire And blanket all the earth; Nor right it seems For Christmas bells To chime When there’s no snow. Oh would I had a fairy wand To wave o’er our sad earth And magically to fit it To see the Christ King’s birth.
[Joy and Pain]Love or life, for life is love. Without it, where’s the worth Of striving so for joy to help. Love is the pain we also need To lend to joy it’s savour Pain with joy we’re glad to group From love, God’s precious favour.
The CarillonI hear them now those chiming bells, Which often fall unheeded, Recalling words that fit to them, And plead for help, so needed. “Through this hour Lord be our guide” If we thought of what they say “For with thy help no foot shall slide” Would be our cry all day. But hurriedly we strive along Nor heed the fleeting hours Intent on cares of mortal worth That sadly strain our powers. No leisure ours to count the time The Carillon rings out We’re rushing on - I wonder where, And what it is all about.
Gatineau HillsThere’s joy in the path which daily I tread For the glimpse of the hills I catch from the road. They are purple, or orange, sometimes green or they’re red, Vaguely blue in a mist, powdered white if it’s snowed. ’Gainst a green grayish sky a thin shaft of live light, And they gleam in the fall like a copper flame-caught.
CorvettesThey go down to the sea in ships, The men in the Gallant corvettes; Where gales and chill and lurking death With strength and calm are met. They are brave as worthy their craft, Strong as the steal they ride; Watchful eyes on seas and skies Where precious cargoes’s foes may hide. So they ride the stormy waves A sight as e’er was seen: Draped by winter’s icy hand; A float for a carnival queen.
Editorial note: Jean's brother was a sonar operator on Corvettes in World War 2.