Trousseau.

Exquisite silken things, as sheer
As gossamer; (“Hand-made, my dear!”)
Faint pinks, elusive greens, soft blues,
Pale, glowing yellows—rainbow hues
Adrift with lace like summer seas
With foam. Why should I sigh for these?
I do not want such things—I know
I could not sit for hours and sew
Small, patient stitches in a seam—
I could not quietly sew and dream
Of bridal robes and wedding bells;
My restless fancy never dwells
On homely fireside happiness.
I have not loved, how shall I guess
What tender secret thought has made
Your fair cheeks glow a deeper shade?
Ah, fold with reverent hands away
Your gleaming cobweb treasures! Lay
Your rainbow hopes and dreams between
The wisps of pink, the films of green—
I do not want such things … and yet
What is this ache if not regret?

—Katherine O'Brien.

* * *

The Builders.

Yes, they builded for the future, these our splendid pioneers,
With an ever-widening foresight for the ever-changing years,
For they built with seasoned timber from the heart of giant trees,
And beneath a north-end gable fashioned sunny nurseries;
And upon the windy stretches of the unprotected plain
Set long lines of pine and blue-gum by great open fields of grain;
And through patient years of growing lit a never-dying flame
Of a vision of the future in the little hearts which came.
So when you and I are building, shall we plan a future too,
With a little of the wisdom that our early fathers knew …
As their worthy son and daughter plant some sturdy little tree,
And beneath our north-end gable build an old-time nursery?

—Essie S. Summers.

To My Lady Dahlia.

Uplift thy head, thy golden drooping head
And greet the sun.
Thy loveliness with all this garden share
Nor one by one
Thy dainty petals, oh! so sadly shed.
See how the phlox their glory for thee spread,
And in the pool
Are lilies with their painted cups of wax
Demure and cool.
Live! lest they wake and weep to find thee dead.

—Rhoda Hare.

* * *

Sacrilege.

These lines were written following a visit to the Maori Pa at Whakare-warewa. In common with most places visited by tourists, it has suffered from the people who love to scribble their names. In places the carvings and scrolls are covered with them.

They came from Mudgee,
In New South Wales.
They braved the fiercest
Of Tasman gales.
They travelled fast,
And they travelled far
To write their names
In a Maori Pa.
They saw Pohutu,
The “Gates of Hell,”
The Buried Village,
The Lakes as well;
But the principal reason
They came so far
Was—To write their names
In a Maori Pa.
They passed the trenches
And palisade;
They crossed the marae
And reached the shade
Of the Wharenui,
Then passed from view—
And the scribbled names
Were increased by two.
Like a thousand others
Who venture forth
From the distant south
Or the sunny north,
They looked like men
Who would travel far—
To write their names
In a Maori Pa!

—C. W. Vennell.

* * *

The Daffodil Boy.

David was golden,
David was fey;
On a daffodil eve
He was stolen away,
And was given a bugle
Before he was seven,
To blow the hours in
From the ramparts of heaven.
A legend grew round him,
And people declared
In the loopholes of sunset
His shape had appeared,
With a daffodil bugle
As bright as the gleam
Of the intricate woof
In a daffodil dream.
David heard footsteps
That passed in the dew,
Had friends in the garden
That nobody knew
And a presence to guard him
At dark of the night,
With wings that were silver,
And feet that were white.
If David from boyhood
Had burgeoned and grown,
As a gentle-voiced prophet
He might have been known,
For he knew that the battles
Of earth could be won
With the bugles of wind
And the shafts of the sun.

—Winifred Tennant.

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