When Winter Comes

Rain at Muchalat, rain at Sooke, And rain, they say, from Yale to Skeena, And the skid-roads blind, and never a look Of the Coast Range blue over Malaspina, And west winds keener Than jack-knife blades, And rocks grown greener With the long drip-drip from the cedar shades On the drenched deep soil where the footsteps suck, And the camp half-closed and the pay-roll leaner,— Say, little horse, shall we hunt our luck?

Yet... I don't know... there's an hour at night When the clouds break and the stars are turning A thousand points of diamond light Through the old snags of the cedar-burning, And the west wind's spurning A hundred highlands, And the frost-moon's learning The white fog-ways of the outer islands, And the shallows are dark with the sleeping duck, And life's a wonder for our discerning,— Say, little horse, shall we wait our luck?