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
After Albert Lozeau (\u00c9rable rouge)<\/i><\/b>\u00a0\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n Dans le vent qui les tord les \u00e9rables se plaignent, Il est dans la montagne, aupr\u00e8s d’un ch\u00eane vieux, L’\u00e9carlate s’\u00e9pand et le rubis s’\u00e9coule Il n’est qu’une blessure o\u00f9, magnifiquement, Le bel arbre ! On dirait que sa cime qui bouge Sur le feuillage d’or au sol brun s’amassant, Et quand le soir \u00e9teint l’\u00e9clat de chaque chose, La lune bleue et blanche au lointain \u00e9mergeant, Et c’est une splendeur claire que rien n’\u00e9gale, <\/p>\n *<\/span><\/p>\n Albert Lozeau<\/b>. \u00c9mile Nelligan is usually taken to be Qu\u00e9bec’s Rimbaud, but Lozeau, who suffered from Pott’s Diseae, also deserves the epithet <\/em>po\u00e8te maudit. From <\/em>Ellipse 38 (1987), pp 32-37.<\/em><\/i><\/p>\n <\/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
\nEt j’en sais un, l\u00e0-bas, dont tous les rameaux saignent !<\/p>\n
\nSur le bord d’un chemin sombre et silencieux.<\/p>\n
\nDe sa large ramure au bruit frais d’eau qui coule.<\/p>\n
\nLe rayon qui p\u00e9n\u00e8tre allume un flamboiement !<\/p>\n
\nA tremp\u00e9 dans les feux mourants du soleil rouge !<\/p>\n
\nPar instant, il \u00e9chappe une feuille de sang.<\/p>\n
\nL’ombre qui l’enveloppe en devient toute rose !<\/p>\n
\nDans la nuit vaste et pure y verse une eau d’argent.<\/p>\n
\nSous le soleil penchant ou la nuit automnale !<\/p>\n