Six Nations Public library - Digital Archive
"At the Ferry"


Description
Mystery Question:
In what year was this poem published?
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Creator:
Johnson, E. Pauline, 1861-1913, Author
Media Type:
Text
Item Type:
Documents
Description:
"At the Ferry," a poem by E. Pauline Johnson.
Subject(s):
Local identifier:
SNPL004117v00d
Language of Item:
English
Creative Commons licence:
by-nc-nd [more details]
Copyright Statement:
Copyright status unknown. Responsibility for determining the copyright status and any use rests exclusively with the user.
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Full Text
AT THE FERRY


We are waiting in the nightfall by the River's placid rim,

Summer silence all about us, save where swallows' pinions

skim The still grey waters sharply, and the widening circles reach,

With faintest, stillest music, the white gravel on the beach.



The sun has set long, long ago. Against the pearly sky

Elm branches lift their etching up in arches slight and high.

Behind us stands the forest, with its black and lonely pines;

Before us, like a silver thread, the old Grand River winds.

Far down its banks the Village lights are creeping one by one;

Far up above, with holy torch, the evening star looks down.

Amid the listening stillness, you and I have silent grown,

Waiting for the River ferry, - waiting in the dusk alone.

At last we hear a velvet step, sweet silent reigns no more;

Tis a bearfoot, sunburnt little boy upon the other shore.

Far thro' the waning twilight we can see him quickly kneel

To lift the heavy chain, then turn the rusty old cog-wheel;

And the water-logged old ferry-boat moves slowly from the brink,

Breaking all the stars reflections with the waves that rise and sink;

While the water dripping gently from the rising, falling chains,

Is the only interruption to the quiet that remains To lull

us into golden dreams, to charm our cares away With its Lethean

waters flowing 'neath the bridge of yesterday.

Oh; the day was calm and tender, but the night is calmer still,

As we go aboard the ferry, where we stand and dream, until

We cross the sleeping river, with its restful whisperings,

And peace falls, like a feather from some passing angel's wings.

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"At the Ferry"


"At the Ferry," a poem by E. Pauline Johnson.