Emily Pauline Johnson

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

Emily Pauline Johnson Poems

1. Joe 5/8/2012
2. The King's Consort 1/1/2004
3. The Idlers 1/1/2004
4. Through Time And Bitter Distance 4/7/2010
5. When George Was King 4/7/2010
6. Workworn 1/1/2004
7. Where Leaps The Ste. Marie 1/1/2004
8. The Man In Chrysanthemum Land 1/1/2004
9. Lady Lorgnette 1/1/2004
10. The Pilot Of The Plains 4/7/2010
11. The Indian Corn Planter 1/1/2004
12. Low Tide At St. Andrews 1/1/2004
13. The Vine 1/1/2004
14. Easter 1/1/2004
15. Wave-Won 1/1/2004
16. Dawendine 1/1/2004
17. Golden--Of The Selkirks 1/1/2004
18. Under Canvas 1/1/2004
19. Your Mirror Frame 1/1/2004
20. Erie Waters 1/1/2004
21. Wolverine 4/7/2010
22. The Overture 1/1/2004
23. The Firs 1/1/2004
24. And He Said, Fight On 4/7/2010
25. The Trail To Lillooet 1/1/2004
26. Prairie Greyhounds (C.P.R. "No. 1," Westbound) 1/1/2004
27. The Quill Worker 1/1/2004
28. The Ballad Of Yaada (A Legend Of The Pacific Coast) 1/1/2004
29. The Vagabonds 1/1/2004
30. Marshlands 1/1/2004
31. Fasting 1/1/2004
32. Hare-Bell 1/1/2004
33. The Art Of Alma-Tadema 1/1/2004
34. The City And The Sea 1/1/2004
35. Brier: Good Friday 4/7/2010
36. Thistle-Down 1/1/2004
37. The Flight Of The Crows 1/1/2004
38. Brandon 1/1/2004
39. The Song My Paddle Sings 4/7/2010
40. The Songster 1/1/2004
Best Poem of Emily Pauline Johnson

Fire-Flowers

And only where the forest fires have sped,
Scorching relentlessly the cool north lands,
A sweet wild flower lifts its purple head,
And, like some gentle spirit sorrow-fed,
It hides the scars with almost human hands.

And only to the heart that knows of grief,
Of desolating fire, of human pain,
There comes some purifying sweet belief,
Some fellow-feeling beautiful, if brief.
And life revives, and blossoms once again

Read the full of Fire-Flowers

The Camper

Night 'neath the northern skies, lone, black, and grim:
Naught but the starlight lies 'twixt heaven, and him.

Of man no need has he, of God, no prayer;
He and his Deity are brothers there.

Above his bivouac the firs fling down
Through branches gaunt and black, their needles brown.

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