[Poems by Woolson in] Five generations (1785-1923) being scattered chapters from the history of the Cooper, Pomeroy, Woolson and Benedict families, with extracts From their Letters and Journals, as well as articles and poems by Constance Fenimore Woolson |
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MACKINAC—REVISITED.
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 | [Poems by Woolson in] Five generations (1785-1923) |  |
285
MACKINAC—REVISITED.
A Fragment.
The sunset gate in shadow lies
Before the morning radiance,
And shineth still down Michigan
The far-off flash of Waugoschance;
But nearer looms a cloudy shape
Up from the waves, its outlines draw
The tears;—thy every line I know
O purple-hued, beautiful Mackinac!
Before the morning radiance,
And shineth still down Michigan
The far-off flash of Waugoschance;
But nearer looms a cloudy shape
Up from the waves, its outlines draw
The tears;—thy every line I know
O purple-hued, beautiful Mackinac!
Isle of the north, thy shadowed tints
Again I see,—the aisles of pines
That sweep around like outer court,
The spicy cedars' sharpened lines
Of lighter hue, the blue-green spruce
In Gothic spires; and, thick between
The banners of the maple leaves
That brighten the pines with their summer green.
Again I see,—the aisles of pines
That sweep around like outer court,
The spicy cedars' sharpened lines
Of lighter hue, the blue-green spruce
In Gothic spires; and, thick between
The banners of the maple leaves
That brighten the pines with their summer green.
O when the time doth come for me
To yield obedience to the law
Of mortal life, I fain would rest
Under thy sod, O Mackinac!
I should lie quiet there, and know
Thy pine-crowned cliffs were e'er the same,
Thy foam-capped waves, St. Ignace point,
The western pass in the sunset flame—
And ships all gold-tinged sailing down
To some fair land beyond the gates.
The echo of the evening gun,
The twilight falling o'er the Straits,
The stars slow rising; my sealed eyes
Lying calm in Death's long trance
Would still dream on of Bois Blanc light
And the far-away flash of Waugoschance.
O purple isle, through long, long years
A wide, wide world I've wandered o'er,
From mountains of the western skies
To silver sands of southern shore,
And—ever sad!—no more I strive,
I come again where love doth draw
My lonely heart,—O take me back
And comfort me, beautiful Mackinac!
To yield obedience to the law
Of mortal life, I fain would rest
Under thy sod, O Mackinac!
I should lie quiet there, and know
Thy pine-crowned cliffs were e'er the same,
Thy foam-capped waves, St. Ignace point,
The western pass in the sunset flame—
And ships all gold-tinged sailing down
To some fair land beyond the gates.
The echo of the evening gun,
The twilight falling o'er the Straits,
The stars slow rising; my sealed eyes
Lying calm in Death's long trance
Would still dream on of Bois Blanc light
And the far-away flash of Waugoschance.
286
A wide, wide world I've wandered o'er,
From mountains of the western skies
To silver sands of southern shore,
And—ever sad!—no more I strive,
I come again where love doth draw
My lonely heart,—O take me back
And comfort me, beautiful Mackinac!
| [Poems by Woolson in] Five generations (1785-1923) | |