Other formats

    TEI XML file   ePub eBook file  


    mail icontwitter iconBlogspot iconrss icon

The New Zealand Railways Magazine, Volume 12, Issue 1 (April 1, 1937)

Poor Tom To The Poet

Poor Tom To The Poet.

It's you who are the fool.
I'm bounded by no futile pen,
I write no line on moor or fen,
Or follow any rule.
Nor have I any word,
In measured syllable or rhyme
To tell of bushland and the time
My heart stopped when I heard
A Voice none other knew.
You prate of waters ‘neath the moon,
Of high clear stars in silver shoon,
Of rain, and night, and dew.
Of rivers you have sung,
Of lofty hills, of trees, and rest.
You chatter of a tui's breast—
I speak a tui's tongue.
You pluck a flower and lock
Bruised stem and head in ruthless hands.
This much you feel grave Art demands,
But I can hear her mock.
You think she is a tool
For your thick finger's clumsy use Unseen,
she laughs at your abuse—
It's you who are the fool.

* * *