Sir Charles George Douglas Roberts

(10 January 1860 – 26 November 1943 / Douglas, New Brunswick)

Sir Charles George Douglas Roberts Poems

1. Monition 1/1/2004
2. An April Adoration 4/16/2010
3. In An Old Barn 1/1/2004
4. Tantramar Revisited 1/1/2004
5. The Autumn Thistles 1/1/2004
6. The Great And Little Weavers 1/1/2004
7. Grey Rocks, And Greyer Sea 1/4/2003
8. At The Gates Of Spring 4/16/2010
9. The Clearing 1/1/2004
10. Canadian Streams 1/1/2004
11. O Earth, Sufficing All Our Needs 1/1/2004
12. Bat, Bat, Come Under My Hat 1/1/2004
13. Canada 1/1/2004
14. The Frosted Pane 1/1/2004
15. The Cow Pasture 1/1/2004
16. All Night The Lone Cicada 4/16/2010
17. Ascription 4/16/2010
18. Hilltop Song 4/16/2010
19. The Aim 4/16/2010
20. The Departing Of Gluskâp 1/1/2004
21. Philander's Song 1/1/2004
22. Ave! (An Ode For The Shelley Centenary, 1892) 1/1/2004
23. An Epitaph For A Husbandman 1/1/2004
24. Cambrai And Marne 4/16/2010
25. The Skater 1/1/2004
26. Afoot 4/16/2010
27. The Iceberg 1/1/2004
28. The Solitary Woodsman 1/1/2004
29. The Potato Harvest 1/1/2004
30. The Herring Weir 1/1/2004
31. When The Sleepy Man Comes 4/16/2010
32. The Recessional 1/4/2003
33. Twilight On Sixth Avenue At Ninth Street 1/1/2004
34. The Salt Flats 1/1/2004
35. The Hawkbit 4/16/2010
36. The Sower 4/16/2010
37. Wayfarer Of Earth 4/16/2010
Best Poem of Sir Charles George Douglas Roberts

Monition

A faint wind, blowing from World's End,
Made strange the city street.
A strange sound mingled in the fall
Of the familiar feet.
Something unseen whirled with the leaves
To tap on door and sill.
Something unknown went whispering by
Even when the wind was still.
And men looked up with startled eyes
And hurried on their way,
As if they had been called, and told
How brief their day.

Read the full of Monition

In An Old Barn

Tons upon tons the brown-green fragrant hay
O'erbrims the mows beyond the time-warped eaves,
Up to the rafters where the spider weaves,
Though few flies wander his secluded way.
Through a high chink one lonely golden ray,
Wherein the dust is dancing, slants unstirred.
In the dry hush some rustlings light are heard,
Of winter-hidden mice at furtive play.
Far down, the cattle in their shadowed stalls,

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