Mapping Indigenous Poetry of North America, 1830-1924

"The Idlers" by E. Pauline Johnson

The sun's red pulses beat,
Full prodigal of heat,
Full lavish of its lustre unrepressed;
But we have drifted far 
From where his kisses are,
And in this landward-lying shade we let our paddles
    rest. 
    
The river, deep and still,
The maple-mantled tinted hill,
The little yellow beach whereon we lie,
The puffs of heated breeze,
All sweetly whisper—These 
Are days that only come in a Canadian July. 

So, silently we two 
Lounge in our still canoe, 
Nor fate, nor fortune matters to us now: 
So long as we alone 
May call this dream our own,
The breeze may die, the sail may droop, we care 
    not when or how. 
    
Against the thwart, near by,
Inactively you lie,
And all too near my arm your temple bends.
Your indolently crude, 
Abandoned attitude,
Is one of ease and art, in which a perfect languor
    blends. 
    
Your costume, loose and light,
Leaves unconcealed your might
Of muscle, half suspected, half defined;
And falling well aside,
Your vesture opens wide, 
Above your splendid sunburnt throat that pulses
    unconfined. 
    
With easy unreserve,
Across the gunwale's curve,
Your arm superb is lying, brown and bare;
Your hand just touches mine 
With import firm and fine, 
(I kiss the very wind that blows about your
    tumbled hair). 
    
Ah! Dear, I am unwise 
In echoing your eyes 
Whene'er they leave their far-off gaze, and turn
To melt and blur my sight;
For every other light
Is servile to your cloud-grey eyes, wherein cloud 
    shadows bum. 
    
But once the silence breaks,
But once your ardour wakes 
To words that humanize this lotus-land;
So perfect and complete
Those burning words and sweet,
So perfect is the single kiss your lips lay on my
    hand. 
    
The paddles lie disused,
The fitful breeze abused, 
Has dropped to slumber, with no after-blow;
And hearts will pay the cost,
For you and I have lost 
More than the homeward blowing wind that died 
    an hour ago. 

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