As they thrash in the breeze the maples moan.
\nOne that I know stands not quite alone<\/p>\n
on a slope where gloom and silence cloak
\na footpath running beside an ancient oak.<\/p>\n
From its broad boughs splashes of scarlet flow
\nto the fresh sound of water burbling below.<\/p>\n
An open slash in the limbs makes a frame
\nthrough which a beam pierces, igniting a flame.<\/p>\n
The fabric of its swaying summit seems spun
\nfrom the dying fires of the crimson sun.<\/p>\n
Among golden leaves below in a bed
\nthere is one which flashes bright blood-red.<\/p>\n
Twilight then mutes the luster of things, throws
\nambient shadows shading to rose.<\/p>\n
The blue-white moon heaves into sight,
\nspills trickles of silver into vast, pure night,<\/p>\n
transparent splendor nothing can rival:
\nafter setting sun, night autumnal.<\/p>\n
***<\/span><\/p>\n After Albert Lozeau<\/a><\/b> (here is the\u00a0French original<\/a>).\u00a0<\/span>It is telling of schism that runs through things Canadian that there is no English language Wiki page for him.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n <\/p>\n <\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":" 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 … <\/p>\n