Emily Pauline Johnson

[Tekahionwake] (10 March 1861 – 7 March 1913 / Chiefswood, Ontario)

Emily Pauline Johnson Poems

1. Joe 5/8/2012
2. The King's Consort 1/1/2004
3. The Idlers 1/1/2004
4. Through Time And Bitter Distance 4/7/2010
5. When George Was King 4/7/2010
6. Workworn 1/1/2004
7. Where Leaps The Ste. Marie 1/1/2004
8. The Man In Chrysanthemum Land 1/1/2004
9. Lady Lorgnette 1/1/2004
10. The Pilot Of The Plains 4/7/2010
11. The Indian Corn Planter 1/1/2004
12. Low Tide At St. Andrews 1/1/2004
13. Give Us Barabbas 4/7/2010
14. The Vine 1/1/2004
15. Easter 1/1/2004
16. Wave-Won 1/1/2004
17. Dawendine 1/1/2004
18. Golden--Of The Selkirks 1/1/2004
19. Under Canvas 1/1/2004
20. Your Mirror Frame 1/1/2004
21. Erie Waters 1/1/2004
22. Wolverine 4/7/2010
23. The Overture 1/1/2004
24. The Firs 1/1/2004
25. And He Said, Fight On 4/7/2010
26. The Trail To Lillooet 1/1/2004
27. Prairie Greyhounds (C.P.R. "No. 1," Westbound) 1/1/2004
28. The Quill Worker 1/1/2004
29. The Ballad Of Yaada (A Legend Of The Pacific Coast) 1/1/2004
30. The Vagabonds 1/1/2004
31. Marshlands 1/1/2004
32. Fasting 1/1/2004
33. Hare-Bell 1/1/2004
34. The Art Of Alma-Tadema 1/1/2004
35. The City And The Sea 1/1/2004
36. Brier: Good Friday 4/7/2010
37. Thistle-Down 1/1/2004
38. The Flight Of The Crows 1/1/2004
39. Brandon 1/1/2004
40. The Song My Paddle Sings 4/7/2010
Best Poem of Emily Pauline Johnson

Canadian Born

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.

Few of us have the blood of kings, few are of courtly birth,
But few are vagabonds or rogues of doubtful name and worth;
And all have one credential that entitles us to brag--
That we were born in Canada beneath the British flag.

We've yet to make our money, we've yet to make our fame,
But we have gold and glory in our clean colonial ...

Read the full of Canadian Born

Moonset

Idles the night wind through the dreaming firs,
That waking murmur low,
As some lost melody returning stirs
The love of long ago;
And through the far, cool distance, zephyr fanned.
The moon is sinking into shadow-land.

The troubled night-bird, calling plaintively,
Wanders on restless wing;

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