Duncan Campbell Scott

(2 August 1862 – 19 December 1947 / Ottawa, Ontario)

Duncan Campbell Scott Poems

1. The Fallen 8/31/2015
2. Mist And Frost 4/19/2010
3. Mid-August 4/19/2010
4. The Apparition 4/19/2010
5. Madonna With Two Angels 4/19/2010
6. Ode For The Keats Centenary 1/3/2003
7. Meditation At Perugia 4/19/2010
8. Stone Breaking 1/3/2003
9. New Year's Night, 1916 4/19/2010
10. Life And Death 4/19/2010
11. Night 4/19/2010
12. Rapids At Night 1/3/2003
13. Permanence 1/3/2003
14. O Turn Once More 4/19/2010
15. The Wood By The Sea 4/19/2010
16. To A Canadian Lad Killed In The War 4/19/2010
17. The Closed Door 4/19/2010
18. The Battle Of Lundy's Lane 4/19/2010
19. Night Burial In The Forest 4/19/2010
20. The Beggar And The Angel 4/19/2010
21. The Wood-Spring To The Poet 4/19/2010
22. To The Heroic Soul 4/19/2010
23. Frost Magic 4/19/2010
24. Off Riviere Du Loup 4/19/2010
25. Song 4/19/2010
26. The November Pansy 4/19/2010
27. The Builder 4/19/2010
28. The Voice And The Dusk 4/19/2010
29. The Sea By The Wood 4/19/2010
30. Willow-Pipes 4/19/2010
31. Lines In Memory Of Edmund Morris 4/19/2010
32. In Snow-Time 4/19/2010
33. Spring On Mattagmi 4/19/2010
34. The Leaf 4/19/2010
35. To A Canadian Aviator Who Died For His Country In France 1/3/2003
36. A Legend Of Christ's Nativity 4/19/2010
37. At Sea 4/19/2010
38. The Lover To His Lass 4/19/2010
39. At The Gill-Nets 4/19/2010
40. At William Maclennan's Grave 4/19/2010

Comments about Duncan Campbell Scott

  • Tracy Shields (10/24/2009 5:08:00 PM)

    Imagine Hitler's work continuing on in history, with no end in sight. Imagine Hitler's work continuing for so long that citizens got used to an everending holocaust. Now you understand Duncan Campbell Scott.

    Thoughts from The Circle Game, Roland Chrisjohn and Sherri Young

    11 person liked.
    3 person did not like.
Best Poem of Duncan Campbell Scott

The Forsaken

Once in the winter
Out on a lake
In the heart of the north-land,
Far from the Fort
And far from the hunters,
A Chippewa woman
With her sick baby,
Crouched in the last hours
Of a great storm.
Frozen and hungry,
She fished through the ice
With a line of the twisted
Bark of the cedar,
And a rabbit-bone hook
Polished and barbed;
Fished with the bare hook
All through the wild day,
Fished and caught nothing;
While the young chieftain
Tugged at her breasts,
Or slept in the lacings
Of the warm tikanagan.
All the ...

Read the full of The Forsaken

The Onondaga Madonna

She stands full-throated and with careless pose,
This woman of a weird and waning race,
The tragic savage lurking in her face,
Where all her pagan passion burns and glows;
Her blood is mingled with her ancient foes,
And thrills with war and wildness in her veins;
Her rebel lips are dabbled with the stains
Of feuds and forays and her father's woes.

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