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The New Zealand Railways Magazine, Volume 13, Issue 8 (November 1, 1938)

New Zealand Verse

page 23

New Zealand Verse

High Hills.

Gently let my ashes rest ‘Mid the high hills of the west, Where the golden tussocks grow And the graceful red deer go.
Where down in the gorges dim Blue ducks of the mountains swim, And the red stags' roars resound Through my happy hunting ground.
While through beeches straight and tall Mountain breezes softly call, And the mad world's worries cease ‘Mid those ancient hills of peace.
There forgotten trails I'll tramp Forgotten make a final camp Where the bellbirds sing the best ‘Mid the high hills of the west.
For remembrance only these Lofty hills and stately trees, Azure lake and rippling shore, Grace of life for evermore.

* * *

Sonnet.

Do you recall how we two saw the glow
Of sunset on the headland of the bay? Do you recall the gold of dying day, The fiery red horizon far below, The gorgeous plumage of the sky, the show
Of brilliant hues against the misty grey?
Do you recall how soon we turned away,
How petulant and sad we were to go?
If we had stayed to watch old Phoebus sink
Beneath that placid sea of deepest blue,
If we had stayed to view the mauve and pink
Of early twilight, stayed for just a few
Short moments—such a little time—I think
That I, perhaps, would be in love with you.

Brompton—Piccadilly.

Is life the cure for life? Then come with me
By way of this bright cage where you may see
No more the stars' reproaches, but will gaze
For one brief minute in a wild amaze
On life. The walls' alluring polychrome Speaks not of Carthage, Babylon or Rome,
But London, living London. You may read
Among your fellows of their varying need,
Of human cunning in that pool of faces.
The gateway clangs. Like sheep along the races
The little flock is shepherded. The moan
Of distant trains, the breath of warm ozone
Fills all your being with its strange caress.
The white tiles gleam, and all is loveliness.
At one quick moment; then the terror falls,
And we are trapped within life's lurid walls.

* * *

The Trade Ship.

Oh, where are you going you tall, dark schooner,
As you slip through the wash of the summer night?
Oh, I am set for the Southern Islands, Where the meek brown seals sit on the sand,
And sing in voices like plaintive women
A song of a far strange golden land.
I am bound where the drowned sealers Sit on the rocks with their mermaid loves,
And the wild gulls sweep and cry and nestle
To perch on their shoulders like tame white doves.
And where I am going the pale green current
Blinks with the pack-ice from Polar seas,
And the lights of Aurora leap and rustle
Like wind in the flaming poplar trees.
And what do you carry for ballast and cargo,
Tall dark ship of the summer night?
My holds are filled with a trading cargo,
I carry twelve barrels of rum and wine, And good Virginian kegs of tobacco, And silver from out a Mexican mine. And I carry ten rounds of rusty grape-shot,
And pistol and cutlass and swivel-gun. But I cannot defeat the almighty ocean That last night mirrored a bloody sun.
Three days an albatross followed to starboard,
Until in the binnacle lantern wan The steersman saw him close as he hovered, And his face was the face of a man.
And why are your crew so quiet and sober, Your helmsman watching the summer night?
Oh, they watch for storms that will never strike them, And winds that have ripped the sea to tears.
They will never return on their way from the islands, For they have been dead a hundred years.

page 24