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The New Zealand Railways Magazine, Volume 14, Issue 8 (November 1939)

“Mountain Lands.”

Mountain Lands.”

I have a love of mountain lands,
Where silent peaks climb high
And great pines spread their furry tips
To touch the morning sky.
Where nature is a mighty thing
And lovely in her ways,
Where I might stand in wonderment
And marvel all my days.
The snow-caps push into the blue,
And take its virgin tone
Unto themselves—this vision then
The finest I have known.
What matter if the ways are steep?
The mountain lakes are sweet
Enough to drink and cool enough
To bless your weary feet.
Oh! give to me the mountain lands,
Where silent peaks climb high
And great pines spread their furry tips
To touch the morning sky.

* * *

The Dive.

There is a swift, bright moment, like
a dream,
When, plunging down waterwards, one
knows
The last cool glimpse of high, familiar
trees,
The dear old woods of Sher, the gleam,
All swept away to nothing it would
seem,
As, eager hands outflung, he diving
goes
One second downwards where the river
flows,
And he has swept into the lonely
stream.
Then all is lost to him; there's only
this—
The sweeping solitude of kingdoms
rare,
The high, sweet falling of the water's
kiss.
Ah God! The cold, clean rising to the
air,
The long-drawn draughts of breath;
the bliss
Of regained worlds all shadowy and
fair.

Winter Night.

There's snow in the voice of the wind,
dear lass,
With dawn will the world be white,
And the flocks lie up on the lonely hills,
In the bleak and bitter night.
I sit by the warm home hearth, dear
lass,
Where the red flames glow and leap,
But my heart is out on the wintry hills
With the patient, huddled sheep.
Down in the south sheet lightnings
flash,
Sink down and flash again,
And I know they light vast heaving
tracts
Of the dark and troubled main.
Keen, anxious eyes are watching there,
Whilst I sit safe with thee,
But my heart is out with the ships,
dear lass
And the wakeful men at sea.

* * *

Yearnings.

He was a wanderer, and his sojourn
at the inn
Made festival for us, poor rustic clods,
We listened to him nightly, heard
strange tales
Of pearls and plunder, bellying Island
sails,
Of sharks and swordfish, great Antarctic
whales,
Tales of strange climes, strange peoples
and strange gods.
So for a sennight did we gather there
To listen to his voice, and sit and dream,
Our minds a-voyaging to alien lands,
Seeking Romance on dazzling coral
sands,
Finding Adventure, with fortune in her
hands,
Tasting Life's bounties in an ever-
flowing stream.
One of our number, more curious than
the rest,
Asked of the stranger, “What is it that
you seek?”
“I seek repose to end my weary days,
“A rood of ground, a house by quiet
ways,
“Where cattle lie and watch the
lumbering drays
“Roll down the road.” We others did
not speak.

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