A Willow at Grand Pré

The fitful rustle of thy sea-green leaves
Tells of the homeward tide, and free-blown air
Upturns thy gleaming leafage like a share,--
A silvery foam thy bosom, as it heaves!
O peasant tree, the regal Bay doth bare
Its throbbing breast to ebbs and floods--and grieves!
O slender fronds, pale as a moonbeam weaves,
Joy woke your strain that trembles to despair!

Willow of Normandy, say, do the birds
Of Motherland plain in thy sea-chant low,
Or voice of those who brought thee in the ships
To tidal vales of Acadie?--Vain words!
Grief unassuaged makes moan that Gaspereau
Bore on its flood the fleet with iron lips!