Emily Pauline Johnson

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

Emily Pauline Johnson Poems

1. The King's Consort 1/1/2004
2. Fasting 1/1/2004
3. Brandon 1/1/2004
4. The Quill Worker 1/1/2004
5. The Idlers 1/1/2004
6. Lady Lorgnette 1/1/2004
7. Hare-Bell 1/1/2004
8. Christmastide 1/1/2004
9. Low Tide At St. Andrews 1/1/2004
10. The Vagabonds 1/1/2004
11. Prairie Greyhounds (C.P.R. "No. 1," Westbound) 1/1/2004
12. Where Leaps The Ste. Marie 1/1/2004
13. The Firs 1/1/2004
14. The Pilot Of The Plains 4/7/2010
15. Through Time And Bitter Distance 4/7/2010
16. When George Was King 4/7/2010
17. Wave-Won 1/1/2004
18. Thistle-Down 1/1/2004
19. The Man In Chrysanthemum Land 1/1/2004
20. The Archers 1/1/2004
21. Dawendine 1/1/2004
22. The Vine 1/1/2004
23. The Ballad Of Yaada (A Legend Of The Pacific Coast) 1/1/2004
24. Golden--Of The Selkirks 1/1/2004
25. Workworn 1/1/2004
26. My English Letter 1/1/2004
27. Easter 1/1/2004
28. Re-Voyage 1/1/2004
29. The Indian Corn Planter 1/1/2004
30. At Half-Mast 1/1/2004
31. Nocturne 1/1/2004
32. Under Canvas 1/1/2004
33. Give Us Barabbas 4/7/2010
34. And He Said, Fight On 4/7/2010
35. The Songster 1/1/2004
36. Mosses 1/1/2004
37. The Art Of Alma-Tadema 1/1/2004
38. Day Dawn 1/1/2004
39. An Etching 1/1/2004
40. In Grey Days 1/1/2004
Best Poem of Emily Pauline Johnson

Finale

The cedar trees have sung their vesper hymn,
And now the music sleeps--
Its benediction falling where the dim
Dusk of the forest creeps.
Mute grows the great concerto--and the light
Of day is darkening, Good-night, Good-night.
But through the night time I shall hear within
The murmur of these trees,
The calling of your distant violin
Sobbing across the seas,
And waking wind, and star-reflected light
Shall voice my answering. Good-night, Good-night.

Read the full of Finale

The Camper

Night 'neath the northern skies, lone, black, and grim:
Naught but the starlight lies 'twixt heaven, and him.

Of man no need has he, of God, no prayer;
He and his Deity are brothers there.

Above his bivouac the firs fling down
Through branches gaunt and black, their needles brown.

[Hata Bildir]