RAND

Shy bird of the silver arrows of song, That cleave our Northern air so clear, Thy notes prolong, prolong, I listen, I hear— ‘I love—dear—Canada, Canada, Canada!’ O plumes of the pointed dusky fir, Screen of a swelling patriot heart, The copse is all astir And echoes thy part!... Now willowy reeds tune their silver flutes As the noise of the day dies down; And silence strings her lutes, The Whitethroat to crown.... O bird of the silver arrows of song, Shy poet of Canada dear, Thy notes prolong, prolong, We listen, we hear— ‘I—love—dear—Canada, Canada, Canada!’ Theodore Harding Rand.