November Sunshine.

O affluent Sun, unwilling to abate
Thy bounteous hospitality benign,
Whenas we deemed the banquet o'er, thy great
Gold flagon brims again with amber wine;
Whenas we thought t' have seen on plain and hill
Thy euthanasia in October's haze,
The blessing of thy light, unstinted still,
Irradiates the drear November days.

Naught can discourage thee, O thurifer
Of gladness to the else benighted face
Of the misfeatured earth; fit minister
Of Him whose love illumines every place,
Who pours His mercy forth without demur
Over the sins and sorrows of our race.

W. M. MacKeracher

W. M. MacKeracher was a poet known for his contributions to Canadian literature during the early 20th century. His works often focused on themes of nature, human emotion, and the simplicity of rural life. Though not as widely known as some of his contemporaries, MacKeracher's poetry has been appreciated for its lyrical quality and depth. Much of his work was published in regional journals and anthologies, capturing the essence of Canadian landscapes and the human experience within them. His exact birth and death dates remain obscure.

W. M. MacKeracher

The Wheel Of Misfortune.

W. M. MacKeracher, Simple Poetry

An English Toast.

W. M. MacKeracher, Simple Poetry

In May.

W. M. MacKeracher, Simple Poetry

The Macs.

W. M. MacKeracher, Simple Poetry

English

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Short Days.

Now is the Sun, erst spendthrift of his rays
And lavish of his largesses of light,
Become a miser in his latter days,
An avaricious dotard, alter'd quite.
Is he the same that all the summer long
Strew'd with ungrudging hand his gleaming gold?
Can such ill grace to high estate belong?
Can bright be dim? can warm so soon be cold?

Ay, but he goes his parsimonious way,
And hoards his shining treasures from the view,
And garners up his riches 'gainst the day
When Earth, the prodigal, shall beg anew;
Then to her need he'll give no niggard dole,
But wealth incalculable, heart and soul.

W. M. MacKeracher

Autumn.

The Year, an aged holy priest,
In gorgeous vestments clad,
Now celebrates the solemn feast
Of Autumn, sweet and sad.

The Sun, a contrite thurifer
After his garish days,
Through lessening arch, a wavy blur,
His burnish'd censer sways.

The Earth, - an altar all afire
Her hecatombs to claim,
Shoots upward many a golden spire
And crimson tongue of flame.

Like Jethro's shepherd, when he turn'd
In Midian's land to view
The bush that unconsuming burn'd,
I pause - and worship, too.

W. M. MacKeracher

The Golden Flower

When Advent dawns with lessening days,
While earth awaits the angels' hymn;
When bare as branching coral sways
In whistling winds each leafless limb;
When spring is but a spendthrift's dream,
And summer's wealth a wasted dower,
Nor dews nor sunshine may redeem, -
Then autumn coins his Golden Flower.

Soft was the violet's vernal hue,
Fresh was the rose's morning red,
Full-orbed the stately dahlia grew, -
All gone! their short-lived splendors shed.
The shadows, lengthening, stretch at noon;
The fields are stripped, the groves are dumb;
The frost-flowers greet the icy moon, -
Then blooms the bright chrysanthemum.

The stiffening turf is white with snow,
Yet still its radiant disks are seen
Where soon the hallowed morn will show
The wreat...

Oliver Wendell Holmes

Hope.

    Oh! why should sorrow wound the heart,
        And rob the soul of rest?
    Why is misfortune's bitter dart
        Allowed to pierce the breast?

    We dare not ask; 'tis heaven's decree,
        While faring here below,
    Man's bark is tossed upon the sea
        Of trouble, grief and woe.

    But Mercy holdeth forth a light
        Upon the waves to shine,
    And cheer him in the darkest night, -
        The star of Hope divine.

    Enabled thus, he looks before,
        And sees, Oh! joyful sight!
    The waves subside, the storm is o'er,
        The sky is clear and bright.

    What comfort 'tis when cares annoy
        To know they are from One
    Whose hand dispenses peace and joy
        As well as grief ...

W. M. MacKeracher

November.

Sombre November, least belov'd of all
The months that make the pleasurable year,
Too late for the resplendence of the fall,
Too soon for Christmas-bringing winter's cheer;
Ignoble interregnum following
The golden cycle of a good queen's reign,
Before her heir, proclaimed already king,
Has come of age to rule in her domain;

We do not praise you; many a dreary day
Impatiently we chide your laggard pace;
Backward we look, and forward, and we say:
The queen was kind and fair of form and face;
The king is stern, but clad in brave array:
God save His Majesty and send him grace.

W. M. MacKeracher

Autumn.

From shy expectancy to burgeoning,
From burgeoning to ripeness and decline,
The seasons run their various course and bring
Again at last the sober days benign.
And spring's pied garland, worn for Beauty's sake,
And summer's crown of pride, less fair appear
Than the subdued, enchanted tints that make
The aureole of the senescent year.

So grows the good man old - meek, glad, sublime;
More lovely than in all his youthful bloom,
Grander than in the vigor of his prime,
He lights with radiance life's autumnal gloom,
And through the fading avenue of Time
Walks in triumphal glory to his tomb.

W. M. MacKeracher