Autumn

E. W. Entrican

I walked in the garden in Autumn, and the trees
Were infinitely sad and tender, and strangely at ease,
And old with knowledge of the seasons, buried under their bark
Deep in the deep dead yellow of a wood heart.
Wind woke in the night, and blew the rain under my door
And kneeling at my prayers to morning. I felt on the damp floor
page 26 The tears of the trees at the year's mourning, their pain—
And the spirit of Autumn touched my heart with the touch of rain.

Spring—Nga Tawa

Spring stood singing at my window, and lighting
My eyes with the fire that burns on the green altar—
The lawns touched with sun, after the shower's magic
Sweeping briefly the sky on the first morning.

I laughed, spring careless, tramping the straight road, treading
Is rain-black gloss and the pools of the sky, cloud broken,
And finding at last white flowers on the wild plum trees
Leaning, now with, green lips, over the fences
In a tangle of pussy willows; and, dearest, flaunting
Its gold above bare boughs of the waking apples,
My wattle of spring, on a bed of blue periwinkle.

Wanton, I plucked those blossoms of spring, standing
Heedless my shone shoes in the rain wet grass,
Breathing only the wattle scent, and the white perfumes of the clouds—
And the blossoms I flung with youth's hand into the vase of my heart.