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By Emily Pauline Johnson

A thin wet sky, that yellows at the rim,
And meets with sun-lost lip the marsh’s brim.


The pools low lying, dank with moss and mould,
Glint through their mildews like large cups of gold.


Among the wild rice in the still lagoon,
In monotone the lizard shrills his tune.


The wild goose, homing, seeks a sheltering,
Where rushes grow, and oozing lichens cling.


Late cranes with heavy wing, and lazy flight,
Sail up the silence with the nearing night.


And like a spirit, swathed in some soft veil,
Steals twilight and its shadows o’er the swale.


Hushed lie the sedges, and the vapours creep,
Thick, grey and humid, while the marshes sleep.


Source: She Wields a Pen: American Women Poets of the Nineteenth Century (University of Iowa Press, 1997)

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Poet Bio

Emily Pauline Johnson
Born and raised on Six Nations Reserve near Brantford, Ontario, poet and performer Emily Pauline Johnson was the daughter of a Mohawk chief and his English wife. She was educated mainly at home, studying both English literature and Mohawk oral history and legend. Johnson developed a dual persona for her performances, wearing the costume of a Native princess for the first half and an English drawing-room gown for the second. She toured widely for 17 years, gaining international recognition with primarily non-Native audiences. Johnson’s poetry often uses the tone and structure of English poetry to convey Native legends and beliefs, with a dramatic intensity well-matched to the stage. Poor health caused Johnson to retire from touring, and she settled in Vancouver in 1909. She died of breast cancer in 1913, and her ashes were buried in Vancouver’s Stanley Park. See More By This Poet

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