TO DORA, FOR MUSIC

18–19 February 1939, Toronto

The swan sings again,

Firm-necked, courage-eyed:

It was not her last song.

She sails, through thickening rushes

Into the open water

Splendid as strong men swimming,

Or quiet, like a cat in a corner

Whose avenues none can follow.

The sound of her breath, her voice renewed,

A low note, a high note –

She is the one singing swan,

She will sing at my death,

And joy my mourners.

DORA

Christmas [undated]

When Christmas time is coming round,

I feel my view is wrong,

For everyone is all a-bound,

Their hearts are full of song,

They yearn and itch and long!

While I would rather go to ground

Till all the glories have been found.

Here is a little extra thing

That might assist your nose,

It's black, and therefore does not ring

’gainst bag or winter/summer clothes.

(I scorned the peach and rose!)

If it encourages you to sing,

that will be, once more, everything.

It's rightly called (I'm told) compact

(of what I have no notion),

I learnt at school Latin and tact,

All about land and ocean,

Deportment and free motion.

Assisted by more lotion!

Your use will prove the name a fact;

I'll learn on seeing how you act.

It seems to me a curious toy,

As swift to pass as water,

But as you have a strapping boy,

An enviable daughter,

I offer it in hope some joy

will follow in its train some time

(I've had to change the scheme of rhyme)

And ask you to believe that I'm

Affectionately Hubert.