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The Spike or Victoria University College Review 1932


page 40


A single chimney by a tumbling shed
Only by ghosts and memory tenanted.
Spirit of hands that planted this wild rose,
That trained this honeysuckle where it grows
So fragrantly about this old gnarled tree
Where are you now? Say, do you haunt the wind
That whispers through this grass so quietl
Only the sea replies, her answer thinned
By long low hills whereon no man walks now
Unseen the crimson blossom lights the bough
Of grey pohutakawas blowing free
Between this graveyard and the desolate sea:
Unheard the myriad larks above this rose
Sing the rare beauty here that no man knows.

—M. L.