Outremont.
By W. M. MacKeracher
Far stretched the landscape, fair, without a flaw,
Down to one silver sheet, some stream or cloud,
Through glamorous mists. Midway, an engine ploughed
Across the scene. In meditative awe
I stood and gazed, absorbed in what I saw,
Till sweet-breathed Evening came, the pensive-browed,
And creeping from the city, spread her shroud
Over the sunlit slopes of Outremont.
Soon the mild Indian summer will be past,
November's mists soon flee December's snows;
The trees may perish, and the winter's blast
Wreck the tall windmills; these weak eyes may close;
But ever will that scene continue fast
Fixed in my soul, where richer still it grows.