The ships lie out on English Bay Bright-lit like floating beacons Vancouver with her spangled hands And accents of exotic strands Bears every ship toward day
Ice lies outside my lady’s walls Three thousand miles between us Ojibwa winds blot out the sun Wail winter which has just begun Shriek death from frozen halls
I would be sad to turn from this And fly back east to winter Except that English Bay’s allure Without her here seems bare and poor True spring requires her kiss
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