A lake memory

Blue, limpid, mighty, restless lakes,
    God’s mirrors underneath the sky,
Low rimmed in woods and mists, where wakes,
    Through murk and moon, the marsh bird’s cry.

Never a bud of spring, never a laugh of summer,
    Never a dream of love, never a song of bird;
But only the silence and white, the shores that grow chiller and dumber,
    Wherever the ice winds sob, and the griefs of winter are heard. 

By William Wilfred Campbell