The Lakes.

Like a tang in the wind,
Like a taste in the mouth,
Like a gleam in the eyes,
Lie the lakes of the south.
As like the gold blossom droops,
With pennants drooped lower,
They hide in the hillsides
Of Aotea Roa.
Past the wild woodland
Where still Tane tames,
Past the pale mountains
With faint, fairy names,
Past magic hilltop,
And puriri glen,
The lakelands are far
From the haunts of the men.
Beyond the strange fires
That flare in the night,
The green-glowing caves
That are hid from the light,
Beyond fiord and fell-land
And elf-haunted places,
Where the osier droops,
They have hidden their faces.
With a burden of song
That is painless and free,
In an islet of green,
In a wild swannery,
In a space that seems far
From the shadow of sorrow,
The lakelands are fair
In the lands of to-morrow.
With a swift flight of birds,
In the first morning glory,
Show Wanaka, Sunmer,
And fair Manapouri.
Like the wild flying swans
At the coming of night,
Waikaremoana
Is flooded in light.
Like a song in the ears,
Like a smile on the mouth,
Like a gleam of the eyes,
Lie the lakes of the south.
Like the strange flags that fancy
Furls high, or droops lower,
They flame down the hillsides
Of Aotea Roa.

Mary R. Greig.

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