Eventide.

’Tis evening, and across the ranges Long shadows creep, and soft winds blow
The tall snow-grasses lightly sway And the hills press closer, row on row.
And I hear the sound of a night bird flying,
And the distant sound of a seagull crying,
The swish of wings in the darkness dying,
And the lilt of water far below.
The night is lovely, quiet, remote, ‘Tis such that only one land knows—A land of lakes, high mountains, rivers, Where kowhai and red rata blows.
‘Tis the land where ye hear the bell-bird singing
On the bush-clad slopes to the high peaks clinging
Till their lofty heads appear upflinging
The dazzling white of eternal snows.

—“Karen.”