Looking Towards Mana.

Drowsy I lie upon the sun-kissed hill,
And listen to the surging of the sea,
And watch the wind tossing the manuka,
And leaves a-glisten on the ngaio-tree.

Mana, flat-topped and barren, faces me—
An isle prosaic, though the sky-line shows
Hills blue and misty, faint and fair as dreams,
White clouds a-trail, melting in mountain snows.

Like to the clouds, and shadows born of them
That make the green waves purple as they pass
Spring-thoughts o'erthrong me, as I lie a-dream,
Transient, fleet—wind-ripples on the grass.

—M.L.N.