LINES TO QUEEN QUINTE

Green are the hills when far away, And Youth in leash craves Manhood’s sway: Placid the waters that wash the sands, The sky is blue o’er distant lands. Yet phantom castles—springtime dreams, Dissolve like foam on woodland streams, As Fancy—chastened by breath of Time, Reasons in prose and not in rhyme: Yearning ceases—behold at home The glories pictured by they who roam. Rimmed with vesture of verdant green, Basks Quinte Bay—perennial queen: Matron—a seer—she spans full years Of promise, hardship, wreckage, tears. From pre-historic days of yore Her scroll is writ with mystic lore. O’er her breast stole birchen craft Burdened with Redskin, bows and shaft; Swiftly stalking widgeon and deer Or Paleface tiller settled near. Champlain and Franklin sensed her spell, As did good priest with book and bell. Soldier, trapper and creaking stage Have seen Dame Quinte lashed in rage, But seldom doth she portend ill, Her mood is tranquil, coaxing, still. Who hath not felt her soft caress, Limpid, seductive as maiden’s tress, Who hath skimmed her foaming crest With spreading sheet at her behest, And doth not sing throughout his days Of this real gem amongst the bays. Ensconced in a setting of green and gold, She is ever young to young and old: Could her waters speak as they flow along, “Forget me not” would be their song.