OUTREMONT.

Far stretched the landscape, fair, without a flaw,

Down to one silver sheet, some stream or cloud,

Through glamorous mists. Midway, an engine ploughed

Across the scene. In meditative awe

I stood and gazed, absorbed in what I saw,

Till sweet-breathed Evening came, the pensive-browed,

And creeping from the city, spread her shroud

Over the sunlit slopes of Outremont.

Soon the mild Indian summer will be past,

November's mists soon flee December's snows;

The trees may perish, and the winter's blast

Wreck the tall windmills; these weak eyes may close;

But ever will that scene continue fast

Fixed in my soul, where richer still it grows.