Emily Pauline Johnson
Emily Pauline Johnson (also known in Mohawk as Tekahionwake –pronounced: dageh-eeon-wageh, literally: 'double-life'), commonly known as E. Pauline Johnson or just Pauline Johnson, was a Canadian writer and performer popular in the late 19th century. Johnson was notable for her poems and performances that celebrated her First Nations heritage; her father was a Mohawk chief of mixed ancestry, and her mother an English immigrant. One such poem is the frequently anthologized "The Song My Paddle Sings".
Her poetry was published in Canada, the United States and Great Britain. Johnson was one of a generation of widely read writers who began to define a Canadian literature. ... more »
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Emily Pauline Johnson Poems
And only where the forest fires have sped, Scorching relentlessly the cool north lands, A sweet wild flower lifts its purple head, And, like some gentle spirit sorrow-fed,
The cedar trees have sung their vesper hymn, And now the music sleeps-- Its benediction falling where the dim Dusk of the forest creeps.
The Giant Oak
And then the sound of marching armies 'woke Amid the branches of the soldier oak, And tempests ceased their warring cry, and dumb The lashing storms that muttered, overcome,
A cry from an indian wife
My forest brave, my Red-skin love, farewell; We may not meet to-morrow; who can tell What mighty ills befall our little band, Or what you'll suffer from the white man's hand?
To-night the west o'er-brims with warmest dyes; Its chalice overflows With pools of purple colouring the skies, Aflood with gold and rose;
So near at hand (our eyes o'erlooked its nearness In search of distant things) A dear dream lay--perchance to grow in dearness Had we but felt its wings
We first saw light in Canada, the land beloved of God; We are the pulse of Canada, its marrow and its blood: And we, the men of Canada, can face the world and brag That we were born in Canada beneath the British flag.
(ACROSTIC) Crown of her, young Vancouver; crest of her, old Quebec; Atlantic and far Pacific sweeping her, keel to deck.
As red men die
Captive! Is there a hell to him like this? A taunt more galling than the Huron's hiss? He--proud and scornful, he--who laughed at law, He--scion of the deadly Iroquois,
(INSCRIBED TO ONE BEYOND SEAS) Know by the thread of music woven through This fragile web of cadences I spin,
The cattle thief
They were coming across the prairie, they were galloping hard and fast; For the eyes of those desperate riders had sighted their man at last--
I am Ojistoh, I am she, the wife Of him whose name breathes bravery and life And courage to the tribe that calls him chief. I am Ojistoh, his white star, and he
A sweet high treble threads its silvery song, Voice of the restless aspen, fine and thin It trills its pure soprano, light and long- Like the vibretto of a mandolin.
Idles the night wind through the dreaming firs, That waking murmur low, As some lost melody returning stirs The love of long ago;
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
(26 April 1564 - 23 April 1616)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(31 May 1819 - 26 March 1892)
(16 August 1920 – 9 March 1994)
And only where the forest fires have sped,
Scorching relentlessly the cool north lands,
A sweet wild flower lifts its purple head,
And, like some gentle spirit sorrow-fed,
It hides the scars with almost human hands.
And only to the heart that knows of grief,
Of desolating fire, of human pain,
There comes some purifying sweet belief,
Some fellow-feeling beautiful, if brief.
And life revives, and blossoms once again