As they thrash in the breeze the maples moan.
One that I know stands not quite alone
on a slope where gloom and silence cloak
a footpath running beside an ancient oak.
From its broad boughs splashes of scarlet flow
to the fresh sound of water burbling below.
An open slash in the limbs makes a frame
through which a beam pierces, igniting a flame.
The fabric of its swaying summit seems spun
from the dying fires of the crimson sun.
Among golden leaves below in a bed
there is one which flashes bright blood-red.
Twilight then mutes the luster of things, throws
ambient shadows shading to rose.
The blue-white moon heaves into sight,
spills trickles of silver into vast, pure night,
transparent splendor nothing can rival:
after setting sun, night autumnal.
***
After Albert Lozeau (here is the French original). It is telling of schism that runs through things Canadian that there is no English language Wiki page for him.