By Wesley Williamson
(A sonnet looking forward to Expo '67 in Montreal)
The snow-shroud settles comfortably
About the corpse: the city sounds groan down
To a deeper note; the measured beat
Of a muffled drum calls
Come one come all to Montreal,
Shuffle in uneasy ceremonial
Around the bier, and squeeze a conscientious tear:
One hundred years, an unconscionable time a'dying.
Still it was a grand wake we had
For the old man and him lying
All dressed up in his Sunday best.
from his slow
Corruption, under the vast innocence of the snow,
The customary miracle may bring
A brighter leaf
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