Some There Are.
For some there are who do not know
Nor feel the urge or wish to go.
Not know when stalking time is near
Or wish to hunt elusive deer.
Or climb the tops and gaze below
For those there are who do not know.
Not know or feel the time of year,
Nor wish to gather pack and gear.
Or long to saddle up a hack
And head for hills away out back,
To see once more a fall of snow;
For some there are who do not know.
Not know the thrill to hunt the boar,
Or to hear the red stags roar,
Or quietly stalk through forests deep,
Or gaze at noon on hills asleep
For we are queer who wish to go
Or so they say who do not know.
Not know the tracks that seem to cling
Nor, wish to hear the tuis sing,
Or laze beside a fern-draped wall
Somewhere where mountain waters fall.
Watching the spray and coloured bow,
Not wish for these, or want to know.
Not know the thrill afar to sight
O'er bush and range, old Egmont's height,
Nor listen to the bellbirds chime,
Or down the bushclad spurs to climb.
So strange it is we wish to go,
Or so they say who may not know.
Not know the breath of mountain air
Or feel the feeling of no care,
Not know what nomads ever knew
Or do the things that they would do,
Or watch the cloudmist fade and go;
For those there are who do not know.
Not know the big-eyed moreporks wail,
Nor wish to take a campward trail,
Or watch at eve the changing light,
Or sit and yarn in camp at night.
For some there are who ought to go
That they might feel the spell and know.
And know, and in the spell be caught
And know ten days would be too short.
Too short for those who know the spell
Of roaring stags and bellbirds' bell,
Ten days too short to laze or dream
By camp or spur or mountain stream.

—L. M.

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