Emily Pauline Johnson

[Tekahionwake] (10 March 1861 – 7 March 1913 / Chiefswood, Ontario)

Emily Pauline Johnson Poems

41. Marshlands 1/1/2004
42. Moonset 1/1/2004
43. Mosses 1/1/2004
44. My English Letter 1/1/2004
45. Nocturne 1/1/2004
46. Ojistoh 1/1/2004
47. Overlooked 1/1/2004
48. Penseroso 1/1/2004
49. Prairie Greyhounds (C.P.R. "No. 1," Westbound) 1/1/2004
50. Rainfall 1/1/2004
51. Re-Voyage 1/1/2004
52. Shadow River 1/1/2004
53. Silhouette 1/1/2004
54. The Archers 1/1/2004
55. The Art Of Alma-Tadema 1/1/2004
56. The Ballad Of Yaada (A Legend Of The Pacific Coast) 1/1/2004
57. The Birds' Lullaby 4/7/2010
58. The Camper 1/1/2004
59. The Cattle Country 1/1/2004
60. The Cattle Thief 1/1/2004
61. The City And The Sea 1/1/2004
62. The Corn Husker 1/1/2004
63. The Firs 1/1/2004
64. The Flight Of The Crows 1/1/2004
65. The Giant Oak 1/1/2004
66. The Happy Hunting Grounds 1/1/2004
67. The Homing Bee 1/1/2004
68. The Idlers 1/1/2004
69. The Indian Corn Planter 1/1/2004
70. The King's Consort 1/1/2004
71. The Legend Of Qu'Appelle Valley 1/1/2004
72. The Lifting Of The Mist 1/1/2004
73. The Lost Lagoon 1/1/2004
74. The Man In Chrysanthemum Land 1/1/2004
75. The Maple 1/1/2004
76. The Mariner 1/1/2004
77. The Overture 1/1/2004
78. The Pilot Of The Plains 4/7/2010
79. The Quill Worker 1/1/2004
80. The Riders Of The Plains 1/1/2004
Best Poem of Emily Pauline Johnson

Canadian Born

We first saw light in Canada, the land beloved of God;
We are the pulse of Canada, its marrow and its blood:
And we, the men of Canada, can face the world and brag
That we were born in Canada beneath the British flag.

Few of us have the blood of kings, few are of courtly birth,
But few are vagabonds or rogues of doubtful name and worth;
And all have one credential that entitles us to brag--
That we were born in Canada beneath the British flag.

We've yet to make our money, we've yet to make our fame,
But we have gold and glory in our clean colonial ...

Read the full of Canadian Born

Rainfall

From out the west, where darkling storm-clouds float,
The 'waking wind pipes soft its rising note.

From out the west, o'erhung with fringes grey,
The wind preludes with sighs its roundelay,

Then blowing, singing, piping, laughing loud,
It scurries on before the grey storm-cloud;

[Hata Bildir]