Summer has come to the upland trails,
That wind forever away,
Beckoning out to the great unknown—
Trackless ways I must tread alone
Along the strand where salt-sea spray
Lifts from the shores of a lost lagoon
On the lips of winds that have kissed the moon.
There will be deserts at burning noon—
And night sweet-hills as still as death,
Where a man may hear his every breath—
May hear his heart and know his soul
In the infinite quiet—be shriven and whole.
Oh, adventure calls from the upland trails,
That wind forever away.
Infinite dreams and ineffable things,
That lure as the song that the Siren sings,
Fraught with vague promise, false and sweet,
That charm the heart and lure the feet—
Kiss the lips with the bitter kiss
That drugs the mind to forgetfulness—
Damns the soul forever to roam
Far from the hills and the lights of home.
Yet, though I follow the upland trail
From shining north to calling south;
Though I spend my soul in search of the Grail,
And fall in the Last Long Drouth,
What shall I find transcending this?
The Wind's kiss,
And the Sun's kiss,
And the Rain's kiss?
—And my love's kiss on my mouth.
—E. Mary Gurney.

Beneath a row of trees there stand some seats,
And there the old men sit on hour by hour,
Their faces patient, sorrowful, or dour,
Watching the traffic up and down the streets.
One reads a paper with a peering eye,
Some smoke, some talk, some idly sit and stare
About them, seeing changes everywhere,
And in a dull resentment asking why.
And some are ragged, rheumy-eyed and bent,
And one is deaf, one sad, another lame—
A sudden pity fills my heart with shame
At striding by so young and confident.
—Christine Comber.

This bush is haunted—not, as in older lands,
By dryads dancing through the silver trees,
By little leering fauns in wandering bands,
Or pan-pipes singing shrilly in the breeze.
Not here at midnight do the goat-feet dance;
No wanton satyrs chase the waning moon;
The feet of centaurs, wild with summer madness,
Never have stamped beside this still lagoon.
Our ghosts are starker far, and terrible—
From the lagoon great tearing shark-teeth leap,
Following still the hook of that Great Fisher
Who drew an island from the sunken deep.
Beware the owl-light of the kauri trees,
Beware the banks of fern, so darkly green;
In watery cavern lurks the Taniwha,
Whose monster feet can tread unheard, unseen!
With slavering lips agape, and reddened jaws,
Hine goes shuffling by with senile leer;
Her teeth betokened death to many a warrior
Who passed her dread abode—and passed too near!
Yet some there are, whom earth cannot make fearful.
In splashing streamlets dwell the star-eyed ones—
This ancient people's lovely dark-skinned daughters,
Her proud and tall, her great spear-striving sons.
Here Ina watches still the glowing moon,
Young Maui listens for a phantom bird;
And many an ancient poem here is uttered,
And many a song is sung, but never heard.
Surely on moony nights they go a-hunting,
Who were so young and gay in years gone by;
And Hinemoa hears, above the waters,
The fluted love-song of Tutanekai
—Dorothy I. Scott.

The years encroach,
Impel
—Beating like winged bats
In some deep well
Of Mind.
The days are dark,
Are dull,
Are long.
Somewhere a lark
Lilts out a song.
Who hears?
Who cares?
Save poets with all their petty fears
And petty joys,
And coming age.
The years encroach,
Impel
Beating like winged bats
In some deep well
Of Mind.
—R.I.B.