As they thrash in the breeze the maples moan.
One I know stands not quite alone
on a slope where gloom and silence cloak
a footpath running beside an ancient oak.
From its broad boughs scarlet and ruby flow
to the fresh sound of water burbling below.
There is one gash in the limbs through whose frame
a majestic ray enters and lights a flame!
Beauteous tree, whose swaying summit seems spun
from the dying fires of a crimson sun!
Among gold leaves piled on brown soil in a bed
for an instant one flashes of bright blood-red.
When twilight mutes the luster of things, it throws
ambient shadow the colour of rose.
The blue-white moon which comes into sight
spills a trickle of silver in the vast, pure night.
Transparent splendor nothing can rival
under setting sun or night autumnal!
After Albert Lozeau (here is the French original). It is telling of the schism that runs through things Canadian that there is no English language Wiki page for him.