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The New Zealand Railways Magazine, Volume 10, Issue 3 (June 1, 1935)

New Zealand Verse

page 49

New Zealand Verse

Impression.

I had watched the sycamore fading
And followed the sun from the lane,
And to-day the gulls were wading
In grey pools of April's rain.

Yet for all of the dark days speeding
And the chill wind whining clear,
The winter I never was heeding
Nor dreamed it was nearly here.

But I saw the ghost of it hiding,
To-night at my very feet,
In the lights of the city riding
The length of a shower-wet street.

* * *

New Zealand Night.

And now, remembering, I know again with joy
Those still, cold, mountain nights, when the very stars
More brightly shone, so thickly crusted they with frost.
The valleys deep in darkness lay,
Mysterious and silent. Thrusting in the dark
Long fingers, snow-light crowned the peaks.
Dark trees threw darker shadows on the road,
Whilst from the road black steepness downward sheered
Into the moaning darkness of the stream.

* * *

The Burning Bush.

‘Tis Autumn time, the glory glows,
In colour day by day,
Oh, turn aside and glimpse again,
This miracle display.
The Prophet saw the burning bush
Shine with a fire Divine,
So now the burnished colours thrill
This wondering heart of mine.

The mystery of the burning bush,
‘Twill not consumed be,
And in the passing, we do well
To turn aside and see
The radiance of beauty—
A wealth of golden mine:
For year by year, it comes again,
A miracle sublime.

The fire-lights of Autumn,
All burn with tinted flame,
The yellow leaves turn into gold,
And colours without name.
The vivid crimson sparkles here,
The brilliant lights out-shine
The ruby red, the opal rare,
Or glittering gem as fine.

The iridescent sunset,
And the flush of Autumn leaves!
See, the grandeur of the beauty
Blends with golden harvest sheaves.
Can Earth reflect a glory
Of a Heaven so far away?
‘Tis mirrored in the burning bush,
This perfect Autumn day.

Yes, the flashing carmine colours,
Mingled with the sunbeams' gold,
Reflect a lovely brilliance
Of a glory never told.
So the bush becomes a temple—
Nature's own most glorious shrine.
Hushed, I step aside and worship,
With this humbled heart of mine.

Cabbage-Trees.

Oh, cabbage-trees are witchy things,
At even-fall,
At twilight-time;
Each on the sky a shadow flings
When hid birds call
A last sweet chime.

They change their drabness, and they seem
All magic-bound,
All stiffly-fair,
Like tropic palms that stand and dream
Where slow waves sound
Through darkling air.

Oh, cabbage-trees are drab and dull
Through song-sweet days,
Through hours sun-bright;
But cabbage-trees when breezes lull
Are things to praise
At fall of night.

* * *

Another Spring.

E'en to Demeter, in another Spring,
Sicilian plains were fair.
The flower-washed air
Laved softly her bruised being, long to bear
The spirit's sting
E'er she knew peace
Under the dimming glory the skies wear.

Unsatisfied, the honour of a race
Uprears a twisted pride;
In the Earth's side
Essays to thrust a dagger; cannot hide
The Earth's face,
The pools of peace
Her eyes are, the benison—that men cried.

One lovely thing shatters an ugly spell,
One rose, one shell, a leaf,
In itself brief
But spinning out ever the web. Slow the grief
The days tell
But swift for peace
Beauty that flowers, heart's balm, thought's relief.

page 50