Look there, those maple branches through,
Below us, there's a bark canoe,
'Tis stopping at our landing place
There's but one man with hair so grey,
And a worn weather-beaten face--
See, he is coming up this way
Mamma, I wonder who is he,
Stay here and I will go and see."

Rajotte who thought he did not care--
That he had conquered even despair,
Could bear to _see_ as well as _know_
That Marie was the Dame Vaiseau,
Came to the parting spot, and there,
In the bright sunlight's happy beams,
Stood the fair image of his dreams
As young as on the parting day,
As bright as when he went away,
As beautiful as when he met
Her first in fair Plantagenet,
His Marie, living, breathing, warm,
Her glorious eyes, her midnight hair
Shading the beauty of her face,
The same lithe, rounded, perfect form,
The look of true and tender grace

Rajotte stood spell-bound, and the past
Seemed fading like a horrid dream.
"Marie," he said, "I'm home at last,
Speak, Marie, are you what you seem?