Sir Charles George Douglas Roberts

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

Sir Charles George Douglas Roberts Poems

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

The Cow Pasture

I see the harsh, wind-ridden, eastward hill,
By the red cattle pastured, blanched with dew;
The small, mossed hillocks where the clay gets through;
The grey webs woven on milkweed tops at will.
The sparse, pale grasses flicker, and are still.
The empty flats yearn seaward. All the view
Is naked to the horizon's utmost blue;
And the bleak spaces stir me with strange thrill.
Not in perfection dwells the subtler power

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