On Queenstown Hill.

The damp mists clung about the trees
Where the hill path went winding:
For wafting down the morning breeze,
We heard the tui singing.
The wet grass sagged against our knees
But we went onward climbing,

Upward we climbed, and soon the song
Wove through our happy laughter,
But, pausing where the white mists throng,
We heard it growing softer,
Till one clear note plealed loud and long
And there was silence after.

We turned and watched a golden light,
The formless white mists scatter,
And saw them, mirrored in their flight,
Deep in the lake's blue water
Like dreams left by the laggard night
For dawn's quick light to shatter.

—Helen M. Gibb.