Dear dark-brown waters full of all the stain 
 Of sombre spruce-woods and the forest fens,
 Laden with sound from far-off northern glens
 Where winds and craggy cataracts complain,
 Voices of streams and mountain pines astrain,
 The pines that brood above the roaring foam
 Of La Montagne or Les Erables; thine home
 Is distant yet, a shleter far to gain.
 Aye still to eastward, past the shadowy lake
 And the long slopes of Rigaud toward the sun,
 The mightier stream, thy comrade, waits for thee,
 The beryl waters that espouse and take
 Thine in thei deep embrace, and bear thee on
 In that great bridal journey to the sea.