Sonnet VII from ‘Sonnets Written in the Orillia Woods’

Our life is like a forest, where the sun

Glints down upon us through the throbbing leaves;

The full light rarely find us. One by one,

Deep rooted in our souls, there springeth up

Dark groves of human passion, rich in gloom,

At first no bigger than an acorn-cup.

Hope threads the tangled labyrinth, but grieves

Till all our sins have rotted in their tomb,

And made the rich loam of each yearning heart

To bring forth fruits and flowers to new life.

We feel the dew from heaven, and there start

From some deep fountain little rills whose strife

Is drowned in music. Thus in light and shade

We live, and move, and die, through all this earthly glade.