The Old Canoe

Where the rocks are grey, and the shore is steep,
And the waters below look dark and deep;
Where the rugged pine in its lonely pride
Leans gloomily over the murky tide;
Where the reeds and rushes are long and lank,
And the weeds grow thick on the winding bank;
Where the shadow is heavy the whole day through,
There lies at its moorings the old canoe.

The useless paddles are idly dropped,
Like a sea-bird's wing that the storm has lopped,
And crossed on the railing one o'er one,
Like the folded hands when the work is done;
While busily back and forth between
The spider stretches his silvery screen,
And the solemn owl, with its dull tu-whoo,
Settles down on the side of the old canoe.

Oh, many a time, with careless hand,
I have pushed it away from the pebbly strand!
And the hands that lent to the light skiff wings,
Have grown familiar with sterner things.