POEMS

— BY — Eileen Duggan pu bu c uai'WKv yr tio n s of the race and > the faith of her father and and father her Univer­ of our successes in her faith and > and the studies race Her the ; of mother. s n tio was a grace, a finish of diction, and a spirit of of spirit plane a higher a and on them diction, put of that finish them a in grace, refinement a was will, I am sure, endorse the favourable judgment judgment favourable the endorse sure, am I will, readers from inquiries few no were there paper. and weekly a to attention, contributed verses other most little than a me sent the shyly for poems ellington, W of sheaf College, Victoria already passed on them by the readers of the the of readers the by editor. its them and on passed already that author the things of fully modesty most The I befalls they periodicals. than that reading. for and fate written preserved, are permanent bo better to a for ought deserved they volume that a little agreed no in lished attracted they the of print in appeared they hen W they are the products of a heart and mind inspired inspired mind and heart a of products the are they aet cm mn yas g. n a oe ad beside and home, a In Ireland—■ ago. for years love many a came parents and that me Catholicism to forces— seems t two I by them. in thought commonplace a who readers, of fruits first circle the wider a introduce to I soul pleasure gifted consented, great her has she of ith w that is now and it obstacle, only the was e, s f oe we vie rm h Iih il was hills Irish ocean. the the across from us voice sweet to some singing if as her, rare in a girl who never saw the land from which her her which from land the saw never who girl a in rare the traditions of the old land and that young hearts hearts is young that cause the that for and home, at land as old warmly as them readers, the to here, of more pledge beat a Irish is many To book traditions us this the give that say Duggan. to will like Eileen hope, would future, I the first to from for girl’s promise poems seevast venture I such Zealand it I In New which, young a fancy. of from flight come to thing childhood, her of lore the forget her make not did trans­ sity home and hearth Irish an were that hearth, a not is There culture. high and taste good of stamp err hn ie o s all. us to life than dearer preserved seas has the beyond Ireland Greater our that heard who us to was, it her to came song when and tradi­ the avidly in drank she Zealand, New to planted or er ao yug ii sil suet n in student a still giri, young a ago years Four Personally, I think this little book is a wonderful wonderful a is book little this think I Personally, The poems in this little volume bear on them the the them on bear volume little this in poems The Tablet h wne Ele Dga’ pes pub­ poems Duggan’s Eileen wanted who , Y L L E K S E M A J PREFACE e Zaad Tablet. Zealand New Editor Editor .. Tablet N.Z. There There Tablet ,

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THE SORROW-TUNE. A vagrant sang it in the limes, He did not sing it tenderly; For he was travel-worn and sore, And weary utterly.

I t was a savage little song About a peasant of the snows Who sent her lover to his death To find for her a rose.

A boy sat by his mother dead And shuddered at the little lay: He felt that it was linked for him W ith some great sorrow-day.

W hen he grew up he flowered in grace, And yet he dreamed upon a rune, And always feared to hear again The ugly, wistful tune.

Then came the day he lost his sight, And dumb and bitter ’neath the blow, He heard behind him some one sing The little rant of woe.

And yet uncowed he struggled on, And, striving for his country’s good, He gave his heart into her hand To be by her misunderstood.

U n til at last for her sweet sake He did a thing he counted high. For recompense he was condemned, A nd blind and bound he passed to die.

And just before his shameful death He heard the sorrow-song again, Across the angry multitude A beggar crooned it in the rain.

I t was a savage, wistful thing, I t was not of his race or way, Yet was it ever linked for him W ith some great sorrow-day. s

TO ST. FRANCIS OF ASSISI. When sinners with broken wailing Clutched at thy strong brown hands, Didst think of thy briar budding, trailing, And the long, wet clover lands ?

Did’st walk, my saint, from the stony city, Seeking to cleanse its stain, Thy kin, the muttering winds of pity,. Thy brother, God’s fine rain?

These were thy peace— a yellow tree, And a wild clean air, A dreamy bird, a small gold bee, Climbing the lily's stair.

I have no cowl of brown, no word, Nor robe, nor cord of grace, Yet have I loved the yellow tree, the bird, A nd all the sweet-briar place.

T W O L A N D S . My land is like a restless, daring child That thirsts to drink up life and scale the stars; Her parted lips and wondering eyelids chide ihe world’s gnarled wisdom and its mystery. W ithin her mother’s hall she hears grave speech And smooths to dignity her wilful brows; And when she smiles, a kowhai breaks in bloom, And when she laughs, a tui chimes in song. How can1 my heart slip through her eager, childish hands ?

My father’s land is like a mendicant With hidden face, and silent, stricken lips That dare not speak their mighty need aloud. She in her wallet bears but sorrow’s salt And bread of wrong. Her feet no sandal save From scar of ember, thorn, or stone And when she sighs a hill-tarn stirs in sleep, And when she weeps, a listless curlew moans, And I, I place my heart between her poor bruised hands. 6

SEA PRAYERS. God send a shining wind to blow Upon a little town I know That one there strayed from sea and ships May taste its salt upon her lips;

That one there born of fishermen M ay think on weed and rock again, And never know the penalty Of one who hath forgot the sea;

That she, within that solemn town, May treasure less the song flung down By missel thrush and meadow lark Than moan of gulls against the dark;

And let the spring in her great hour, Come with wet bud and almond flower To wake a troubled memory Of sails upon a windy sea.

A nd let this sea-child hold her hand Forever from the servile land, Lest she should slight infinity, And break her faith with majesty.

God send a shining wind to blow Upon a little town I know, That one there born of sea and south May know its salt upon her mouth.

THE GARDENER. M uttering, he bends above his rows of seeds, Thanking his God for sunshine and blue air, Searching the plot and his own soul for weeds, W hile winds around the bean-flowers blow his prayer.

He names his land with lips that bite and burn I n the grand sorrow of an exile’s wrong, Though faith has taught his nimble hate to turn From famine days and youth’s rebellious song.

Dear God ! When Thou hast caught him to Thy breast, Remind him of this garden and this place, That by his prayer we walk into our quest And meet him in the orchards of Thy grace. 7

TYRANNY. On that high day when God above all pleas Shall call the trembling nations to Ilis knees And bid them lay, in wide feudality, Between H is hands their share of sky and sea, W h a t wilt thou say when from thy bitter side Shall slip, w ith vassal foot, a child, great-eyed, W ith cloudy head, and little lips of woe That tell their tale to God w ith sobbing slow ?

“ Dear God, dear God, this one, this giant one, Put forth his shadow, 'twixt me and the sun, Till all the land, and I with it, grew cold, A n d in the field the wheat-ears lost their gold, Fear caught the throat of every singing lark, How could they sing their songs towards the dark ? And in the land men moaned, or made mad. mirth, M y tw ilight gave wild jesters to the earth. A t last, in doubt and dying, many a one Crept broken from my side to find the sun. And those who did not go cried out for aid, But I, a child, how could I fight the shade?”

How wilt answer God above that cloudy head, W h a t say to H im for whom the west is red, W ho saw from m utant space the stars arise, What wilt thou answer then to those grave eyes?

DESOLATA. She came with daring foot from out green roads, A nd passing fleetly drew the eyes of men, W ith in her arms a fragrant torch of furze- Leapt to a living flame, a golden fire. A nd as she passed one murmured ‘‘She is rich,' Her gold is brighter than the kowHai’s keel.” Another whispered softly ‘‘She draws love Fiercer than rata buds or wild gorse flame.” And all agreed her heart must bloom in joy A nd riot like the blossoms at her breast, But she, she read their thought, and stepping proud She reared her small head higher than Wild autumn petals blown along the wind, Yet knew the one thing sought her was denied A nd she must walk alone through all the years. 8

THE FAMINE WIND. The land lay alone in the twilight, A n d over each hill and slim spire Fell the quiet ash of the darkness From the sun’s long embers of fire.

The peasants in every cottage Builded their fires of peat. Singing the songs of their country, Fierce, and lonely, and sweet.

From out the four corners of twilight, A wind blew in from the shore, A wind so great and so dreary H ad never been known before.

It cried at a window in Antrim, It caught at a Connacht hasp, I t sobbed to a fisher in Munster, And startled his net from his grasp.

And the land alone in the twilight Heard the innocent terror of men, And the question of birds and of children A n d she knew not the answer then.

But when in the day of her hunger, She saw 'neath the broken skies The long, dead lips of the striplings, And the children’s hollow eyes.

She remembered the moaning twilight, A nd the wind in the furze and trees, With its strange and pitiful warning Of unspeakable agonies.

A nd she knew that the K ing of Sorrows, W ith his sceptre of pain and loss, Had touched her brow as an equal, And said, “Thou must bear the Cross.”

Then remembering the olive garden, And the hours of His passion blind, He had come to earth in His grieving, And wept along the wind. yutiuc UtiK.-R< Qi V;G fO Pif, a I fre yu lv o hl ad lame, and halt of love your forget I Can a I fre wa yu ae en o me, to been have you world, what coining forget a heads I silver Can with face We h gif ht wp yu ie nkd flame, naked a like you swept that grief The mockery! royal your by humble furled, fast Made youth of flag our dear, my when, h A sgt f oe or olrs wse bones, twisted toiler’s poor some of sight t A u glat it ih ie n tuh apart, truth and life with not tilt remember gallant I if our Y me punish cobblestones, God the on fluttering bird blind Or t ot f l yu ptf cen heart. clean l pitifu your all forgot? of most gift ut B the in and gave, that soul Grand ae n mr aot h bak bogs. black the about more no Wades children marsh-logs, her and calls willow-weed the bittern From the ! k r a H A n d the lonely little swamp-bird swamp-bird little lonely the d n A Hearken to the voice of Rangi Rangi of voice bough, the blue to a Hearken starshine, through one each the of Peeping kelpies the See t At Ae! ! e t branches; A ! the Ate of ! te A moth ! Ate brown my twilight, of Sleep, weka, huia-bird my little Sleep, now. bright-eyed thee my to sing Sleep, I as Singing hu it ae h sal sea-swallow. small the wake wilt Thou one, wild little my ! hush oh ush— H err hn h da t Tane, to dead the than Dearer err hn h bed f raupo, of bread the than Dearer hollow, the in stirring the Hear t Ae! t At ! te A ! Ate ! Ate ! Ate konini, sweet the than Dearer crying little restless thy ith W e, o er r to ut me. unto thou art dear so Yea, le, y id aaa berry, karaka wild my Sleep, le, y e-ipd rata-blossom, red-lipped my Sleep, koromiko, of bud my Sleep, LULLABY. Y B A L L U L I R O A M A D SOROREM. AD 9 10

ROSA LUXEMBOURG. For some the shuttle leaping in the sun, Laburnum leaves above the quiet door, A n d song that drips like water, cool and slow, And when the hands are still and day is done, The swaying crib upon the firelit floor, Ah how could you those gentle things forego?

Wild heart that beat beneath its tattered shawl, W ild voice that broke upon its ceaseless cry For those whose lips are dumb beneath the sky, Whose feet beneath the stars must stumbling fall, Whose hands must turn in toil until they die! Which is the nobler task? God knows, not I.

For you no threaded spool, no singing time, No young bees flying through laburnum boughs, No little rolling head upon the breast, But now, beyond the bourn of flower or chime, M ay He who set the storm between your brows P ity your broken bones and give them rest.

INDICTMENT. Although you speak wide words I will not hark again, Y our words like flutes have called me from my moor, From road and blos’my lane, They made the way seem light across the blue sea- floor, Till I should reach with song and speech your door, And yet for all your words, I weary in the rain.

Was it for Slavs alone you spoke your dream out wide? How have I failed your quest, what have I left un­ done, That you to none beside Should give their strip of sky, their hills, their streams that run ? Their bonds to mine are threads: their storm is sun— And yet I hooded kneel, and wait upon your pride.

One hour you held the world like to a seed of grain Within your hollowed hand, as no man hath before— The hour comes not again. 'Tis not enough to speak, to speak, and nothing more, When hands are broken on your stubborn door, For all your flowing words my hood is drenched with rain. 11 YVONNE. To all their threats she answered furiously, “I will not,” and again “I will not” W ith all the splendor of an eaglet In its first defence. “ Mark,” said Berol the Red, “she sayeth not ‘ I know not,’ but in very truth ‘ I will not,’ W hy then, mignonne, we search without thy word.” W ho echoed on a mocking note, “ A y, search!” Whereat he swore strange oaths and called his men; But left alone she gave a bitter cry, And crouched within the stone embrasure, With curly head prest to the mullioned panes, And piteous flecks of sunlight on her gown. And now she moaned a name, and beat Her sweet small fists into her troubled palms Like to a child that plays at grief, and weeps To find real pain about his heartstrings. A nd so the minutes passed until she heard Tho clank of iron on stone and shuffling feet, And knew they led him forth. Yet when they came She turned in fitful fashion to the wall, As one who sleeps and dreams unquiet dreams, But cruel Berol would not have it so, A nd forced her savagely to turn her eyes. “ See, Mistress, how a Gascon hawk is snared.” She passed her little hands across her brows To clear her sight, and answered joyously, “God gave this Gascon hawk a soul more free Than eagles have above thy craven land.” Then he they led brake gladly unto her A nd crushed her childish fingers ’gainst his mail, Scorning the bitter buffets of Berol. I n his great palm he cupped her flowerlike chin And drank her vivid eyes and dusky hair For memory in the night to which he went, A nd once he stooped and whispered shudderingly “ I love thee. A h , I love thee, fleur-de-lys.” “Dear God of pity!” said Yvonne the Proud, A nd kissed his bleeding mouth. 12

PAX El DORMIENTI. You say you loved this man— you mourn for him. W hy weep that he is dead ? W e all must die. A nd yet because you loved him do this thing, Ask this strange gift from the unweary God Not for yourself, but for this man, your friend. He was so tired, ask just that he may sleep; Ask God to drop on him a cloak of sleep, As fathers cover up a weary child. Ho was so tired. They tell that once a man Within a land of lilies tried to save The son of its unhappy, blundering king, From men who sought his little royal head; And when he failed they caught and tortured him, A nd would not let him sleep by night or day, Until he dropped his anguished lids and died. And yet your friend more weary was, more tired— I t was a soul he strove for, not a child,— A n d in the sorry strife he knew no rest. Now he is dead. Ask God to let him sleep, He cannot bear the greater glory yet, The stately flame that blinds the brows of saints, He is too tired. When he has slept awhile Rich angels clustering o’er him in the gloom May waken him and lead him to God’s door. But,-.ah! their rustling wings would tire him now.

T H E B R O O M . Since Thou hast set her body here I n exiled ways, 'M id hills that fleer, A nd since her soul, her gipsy soul, Is all of her that strays, r • And even that on shadowed days Must pitch its caravan Far from Orangi loved of gorse and man, Nay, hear the whole 1 Since here the grass lies brown in rings, Nor cloud runs red, Nor tui sings Above her lifted head, • Send Thou to light her gloom The knotted seeds of broom; Its gold from every part W ill blow into her heart And be to her a dearer thing than bread. 13

THE'LAST SONG. Song comes to me But haltingly, A child that stretches hands of faith Then draws them back again, A sun that gilds me for a while, Then hides for fear of rain, I shall not sing again. God has so many singing birds To lilt from sunny throats, Proud birds w ith slow, strong notes, Like stately Dons of Spain; God has full many singing birds To mock on hill and plain The tabor of the wind, the viol of the rain.

God has so many troubadours W ith songs of M arch and May, O n pipe and flageolet, oi To flute of flower and seed; •ji God has so many troubadours * To sing in court and train, o He will not miss my bitter reed, ■i, I shall not sing again. > a , : J j 3 ■a

• THE CHILD WONDERFUL. He came to me one morn, With wet white may And blowing thorn, A n d said the world was very sweet For His bare feet to wander through, But I, in grief that day, Thought how the Word unspoken H e ever m ight have trod The garden of the blue, , Have had for toy in mirth The blind ball of this earth, And prisoner without bars,, Confidingly have torn , ; , A branch of small wild stars To fling in filial token ...... The blos’my cluster broken, a . > Across the knees of God. 14

THE LARK. They tell me in the days before the dark That god of grass and sun, dear Angus Og, From silence called you to his golden hands, Cupping within your slender wine of song, Before he flung you forth who would not go, But sang about his head of wind and furze. Then came the dark, and Angus, grown austere, Drove out his little birds to wing the world, And so I find you here above the myrtle boughs, Where Tane, child of Io , gives you grace. But ah above the birch and myrtle boughs, Do you not miss the brightness of his hands, Do you not see the shining of his face ?

SWAMP-LAND. A vanquished flax droops pennon by the pool That shares the sorrow of a tattered tree, And still is heard along the dreary cool An old tired bittern booming timorously.

The marsh plant slowly drips its sombre seeds, The very blackbird is a bird of rue; A barren wind rustles the raupo reeds, Breaking the silver bucklers of the dew.

God made this place for sallow twisted roots And winds that limp the high-roads of the air, For songless birds and broken-hearted fruits And men who never learned a prayer.

A M IC O M E O . I trust the slender Flemish grasses wave more free Than the brown bracken on Karori heights, A n d the slim-chaliced Flemish lilies sweeter be Than tawny broom buds on November nights, Because I know these things would weigh w ith thee.

I pray my heart may keenly hold for me, Dearer than seedling broom or bracken sprays, ■ Thy rapier wit, terse truth, and knightly courtesy To lock within the casket of my days, Because I know these things would weigh with thee. 15

MATER DOLOROSA. B u t she below saw not the tears Or wild bronze head of Magdalen, Nor yet the piteous thieves beside, For Memory thrust a hand in hers A n d led her through the sunny years. She only saw wide infant eyes, That drank the slumbrous desert stars I n the mute days of flight, or drowsed Beneath the rippling palms at noon: Or yet a lithe sweet form that played By Joseph’s bench in Nazareth, And, shouting, pricked the cruel nails Into its little tawny palms To start and moan in childish pain: Or later still in temple halls, A shining boyish head back flung In argument confounding doctors. Or at the board of Cana’s feast White water reddening into wine, At her own urgent plea beneath The sacredness of His slim hands. A nd last a weary m an who rode Upon a highway strewn with boughs, And heard glad lips proclaim His line. Could that high lord indeed be He Who hung to-day on this mean mound, On this black cross against the sky And while she dreamed He stirred and moaned A blessing on the rebel earth, Then drooped His thorn-rent head and died.

T H E PO ET . The peasant has sweet black bread— Why are you fed with pride, Poor lips that twist and burn ? Earth makes a hungry mill, A bitter quern, For one whose loaf is pride. The peasant' has shoes of wood— Why are you shod with dreams, Poor feet that wander here ? God makes His roads too sharp, His stones too sheer, For one whose shoes are dreams. 16 l

REBELLION. Hard-riding, insolent, and free, Y ou slope your spear to keep a cause, With splendid charge and mad sortie Y ou shatter nations, creeds, and laws.

So you resist, you little heed I f blow or battle be in vain, If human foe should fail your need, You tourneys set ’twixt wind and rain.

The weak search out their rusty spears, Remembering some lost victory, When beats on unaccustomed ears Your miracle of mutiny.

Two things can bend you to your knee, (A nd here the pride lies in defeat): 1 W ho has for foe infinity W ill find at last submission sweet.

Two things alone defy your list, And bend you as a willow rod: Through hours and days and years persist, Changeless, though challenged, Time and God.

DE PROFUNDIS. M y soul to-day is like a beaten child, That cowers with, sobbing moan low in the dark, Catching its breath in memory of the rod, Yot have I knowledge that no infant hath, A nd my despair is sin. For whan the child, with sorrow almost spent, Hears a faint sound; and, lo! the door swings wide; Doth he not raise his hunted eyes and run To press his face against the well-loved hands ? E ’en so one day I ’ll see my Father look From out the shining casement of High Heaven, And step down in love to end my strife; A nd then they’ll lay my flesh that sorrowed so Beneath the silver linen’s cooling fold ; But my swift soul, with sobbing and with laughter, W ill follow His strong feet above the stars. 17

THE MAN AWAY. They marvelled that in lands so old He yet could dream of younger skies, That he could still his heart withhold, Forbid content creep to his eyes.

Upon their wharfs ’mid masts and hulls, H is thoughts like little waves would run, • Past Terawhiti's storm of gulls To Mana drowsing in the sun.

And from his attic, caring naught, H e lured the birds unto his sills Whose wings were nearer to his thought, For they had known the Southern hills.

For they had heard from golden tree With dripping beak a tui sing, And learned with what wet mystery Manuka bloweth in the Spring.

And so he dreamed among the roofs, Kneading the world to singing words, His lyre the beat of passing hoofs, His only friends the birds.

THE WIDE OF HEART. Oh like a little white-washed room Her soul through which the blue winds blow Where scent of sage and flake of broom And hawthorn petals come and gol

So free, so broad she keeps her door That all hurt things to her attuned W ill shyly cross its rush-strewn floor To feel her fingers at their wound.

And sometimes on her whitest days A bird will love the quiet walls, Cleaving the stillness of her ways W ith little cries and calls.

And when she hears the swift, keen note She sighs and flings her hands apart; She knows that from the sweet wide throat ’Tis God H imself sings in her heart. 18 THE MONK. And have ye lost your chivalry, Ye vassals of Sieur Rodd, That ye should curl the lip at me Who henchman am of God ?

Y our liege-lord rides the king’s white road In vair and gold and mirth, M y Master shares the beggar’s load O ’er by-ways of the earth.

Rodd rides between the wheat and vine, The torch flares in his h a ll; The lantern’s dusky flame is mine, F lick’ring from cloister-stall.

Ye boast his men, his towers, his ships, Fair fief and seigneury— A burning coal hath sealed my lips, My Lord’s humility.

See in the grape His life-blood’s dole • W ho made His flesh one w ith the corn: The sky is His blue drinking-bowl, The moon His silver hunting horn.

IRELAND. The torchlight shimmered on the brows of kings Whom earth had bidden to her banquet board, The minstrels played on lute and viol of majesty. I looked for one whose wit and lissom fire Should startle homage from the mouths of men And found her not. But one came limping, laden from afar— T knew the scarlet lips, the strange bright hair, The stormy eyes that spake of mutiny— Leading a ragged train of gay wild souls From that wronged land where e’en the nesting birds, From out the troubled furze, sing sorrow brokenly— My fingers dropped the wine-stoup, and I ran In stumbling haste to bend an eager knee And lay my pageship at her weary feet, But raising white defiant lids, she mocked me, “ L o ! I serve.” 19

ON A SINNER DEAD. Take back your pale pure flowers! Love laid sin to her hours, D id she live white, that on the stones Above her splendid burnt-out bones Y ou lay their fearless purity? Her life was like a tapestry W herein were - woven recklessly All things of earth that scarlet be— The rowan, reddest berry born, The poppy’s wide wet mouth of scorn, That weedr—God knows she loved it well— The little stormy pimpernel— W ild suns, wild dawns, and wild, wild stars And flame that leaps, and leaping, mars These threads she wove at will, Until in this dark land, God drew them to His hand, And weft and woof were still.

& ’l

NEW IRELAND. One said who loved her not— “ Your days are old, Y our trees hang nestless in the m ating hour— The rime haa hidden every seed and flower. How can you ever hope the Spring to hear?" And she, although she knew the falling year, A nd the dead leaves that drift behind the days Where A utu m n is, answered in quiet ways With white wrists raised above her haughty dead, “ These broke their lives as priests break holy bread. Like lamps upon the altar of my foes, They set their wicks against the wind that blows, And died in their own flame, but not before Their dear successors shone above my door. Each had a saint’s clear eyes, a king’s wide hands, Their dust blown free across my lands Shall lay round lily-root and hazel-tree The sweets of saintdom and of sovereignty— A nd I , w ith flowers to bloom and birds to sing, Shall greet across their bones the blowing Spring.” 20

FAITH. They brought me books, deep arguments, grave words, A nd said that I must set my faith to school, But what avail debate, design, or rule, Or all the wisdom of the sage to one Who loves to sit and dream God in the sun, W ho hears His voice at dawn among the birds, And knows His joy is with the yellow bees Adrowse with honey in laburnum trees 1

I want the faith of some old Breton crotie Who mumbling sits in coif and snowy bands And lets the beads slip through her calloused hands, Knowing God’s fingers catch them as they fall; Or Irish dame who hears by boreen wall Sweet stumbling footsteps on the night-wind lone, Small tender gropings at her door’s latch-cord, And runs to greet her new-born, wandering Lord.

EQUITY. The thrush is the lord of the wild, Is it fair in his kingdom’s fold, In the very waste of the wild, To madden the mountain thrush W ith the lilt of thy heedless gold, Till he mourns in the sunset hush ? Think, in thy soul, is it fair?

The thrush holds the heart of the hills, Is it just of thee, in thy grace, To lift in the heart of the hills That mighty human note That begins w ith a reedy race A n d ends with a sob in the throat? Think, in thy soul, is it just? 21

THE CALL OP THE BLOOD. She came to her son in her direst need, A n d stood on his threshing-floor. But he said, “Your truant blood is my shame; Go, take your grey head from my door.

■‘You come in rags like a beggar soul, But they say you have wealth to hide; Go your ways with your rebel feet, You never within shall bide.”

She begged her way through the lands and seas W ith pity or hope from none; But at last in a storm in a stranger land She came to a son of her son.

“ Vein of my vein, I come to thee, Ragged and rebel and sore; W ilt thou do as the child of my womb hath done And turn my grey head from your door?”

But he answering spake: “ I hold to thee, Rebel of rebel born, My heart goes forth to your sorrowful strife As the lark-bird flies to the dawn.

“ The fare of my board is thine to eat, Crust or water or wine; W hen my fire leaps forth in a flower of flame Cinder and coal are thine.

“The wrath of thy tongue is mirth to me, Thy rags are silk in my sight.” He stretched a hand through the wind and rain And drew her in from the night. 22

REMORSE. Others who lose a child Cherish its ways and words, A n d try w ith patient love To keep their souls like windows undefiled, Lest they should miss above Its sudden glances wild Like strange upflying birds.

A dream that will not fleet Drives me through many lands, And yet it is not dear, For all I hold of you, of you, most sweet, Is your dark eyes of fear, Your dragging little feet, And dreary little hands.

UNCERTAINTY. Was it you were not blithe to me? (’Twere fairer not to leave me blind), D id that you spoke so suddenly Spring from an anger in your mind ?

W as it as dives a boy or bird To see the flurried ripples start, You flung that little loaded word To trouble my unwary heart?

PUBUC U B IW ^ Y S r VICTORIA N.Z,XftBI£T 6 0

DUN6DIN