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

Rainfall

From out the west, where darkling storm-clouds float,
The 'waking wind pipes soft its rising note.

From out the west, o'erhung with fringes grey,
The wind preludes with sighs its roundelay,

Then blowing, singing, piping, laughing loud,
It scurries on before the grey storm-cloud;

[Hata Bildir]