There is a Solemn Wind To-Night
There is a solemn wind to-night
That sings of solemn rain;
The trees that have been quiet so long
Flutter and start again.
The slender trees, the heavy trees,
The fruit trees laden and proud,
Lift up their branches to the wind
That cries to them so loud.
The little bushes and the plants
Bow to the solemn sound,
And every tiniest blade of grass
Shakes on the quiet ground.
Waves
I saw a tiny God
Sitting
Under a bright blue umbrella
That had white tassels
And forked ribs of gold.
Below him His little world
Lay open to the sun.
The shadow of His hat
Lay upon a city.
When he stretched forth His hand
A lake became a dark tremble.
When he kicked up His foot
It became night in the mountain passes.
But thou art small!
There are gods far greater than thou.
They rise and fall,
The tumbling gods of the sea.
Can thy heart heave such sighs,
Such hollow savage cries,
Such windy breath,
Such groaning death?
And can thy arm enfold
The old,
The cold,
The changeless dreadful places
Where the herds
Of horned sea-monsters
And the screaming birds
Gather together?
From those silent men
That lie in the pen
Of our pearly prisons,
Canst thou hunt thy prey?
Like us canst thou stay
Awaiting thine hour,
And then rise like a tower
And crash and shatter?
There are neither trees nor bushes
In my country,
Said the tiny God.
But there are streams
And waterfalls
And mountain-peaks
Covered with lovely weed.
There are little shores and safe harbours,
Caves for cool and plains for sun and wind.
Lovely is the sound of the rivers,
Lovely the flashing brightness
Of the lovely peaks.
I am content.
But Thy kingdom is small,
Said the God of the Sea.
Thy kingdom shall fall;
I shall not let thee be.
Thou art proud!
With a loud
Pealing of laughter,
He rose and covered
The tiny God’s land
With the tip of his hand,
With the curl of his fingers:
And after—
The tiny God
Began to cry
Secret Flowers
Is love a light for me? A steady light,
A lamp within whose pallid pool I dream
Over old love-books? Or is it a gleam,
A lantern coming towards me from afar
Down a dark mountain? Is my love a star?
Ah me!- so high above so coldly bright!
The fire dances. Is my love a fire
Leaping down the twilight muddy and bold?
Nay, I’d be frightened of him. I’m too cold
For quick and eager loving. There’s a gold
Sheen on these flower petals as they fold
More truly mine, more like to my desire.
The flower petals fold. They are by the sun
Forgotten. In a shadowy wood they grow
Where the dark trees keep up a to-and-fro
Shadowy waving. Who will watch them shine
When I have dreamed my dream? Ah, darling mine,
Find them, gather them for me one by one.
Song by the Window Before Bed
Little Star, little Star,
Come down quick.
The Moon is a bogey-man;
He’ll eat you certain if he can.
Little Star, little Star,
Come down quick!
Little Star, little Star,
Whisper “Yes.”
The trees are just niggers all,
They look so black, the are so tall.
Little Star, little Star,
Whisper “Yes”
Little Star, little Star,
Gone—all gone.
The bogey-man swallowed you,
The nigger trees are laughing too.
Little Star, little Star,
Gone—all gone.
The Lonesome Child
The baby in the looking-glass
Is smiling through at me;
She has her teaspoon in her hand,
Her feeder on for tea.
And if I look behind her I
Can see the table spread;
I wonder if she has to eat
The nasty crusts of bread.
Her doll, like mine, is sitting close
Beside her special chair,
She has a pussy on her lap;
It must be my cup there.
Her picture-book is on the floor,
The cover’s just the same;
And tidily upon the shelf
I see my Ninepin game.
O baby in the looking-glass,
Come through and play with me,
And if you will, I promise, dear,
To eat your crusts at tea.
A New Hymn
Sing a song of men’s pyjamas,
Half-past-six has got a pair,
And he’s wearing them this evening,
And he’s looking such a dear.
Sing a song of frocks with pockets
I have got one, it is so’s
I can use my `nitial hankies
Every time I blow my nose.
In the Rangitaki Valley
valley of waving broom,
O lovely, lovely light,
O hear of the world, red-gold!
Breast high in the blossom I stand;
It beats about me like waves
Of a magical, golden sea
The barren heart of the world
Alive at the kiss of the sun,
The yellow mantle of Summer
Flung over a laughing land,
Warm with the warmth of her body
Sweet with the kiss of her breath
O valley of waving broom,
O lovely, lovely light,
O mystical marriage of Earth
With the passionate Summer sun!
To her lover she holds a cup
And the yellow wine o’erflows.
He has lighted a little torch
And the whole of the world is ablaze.
Prodigal wealth of love!
Breast high in the blossom I stand.
Night-Scented Stock
White, white in the milky night
The moon danced over a tree.
“Wouldn’t it be lovely to swim in the lake!”
Someone whispered to me.
“Oh, do-do-do!” cooed someone else,
And clasped her hands to her chin.
“I should so love to see the white bodies—
All the white bodies jump in!”
The big dark house hid secretly
Behind the magnolia and the spreading pear-tree;
But there was a sound of music—music rippled and ran
Like a lady laughing behind her fan,
Laughing and mocking and running away…
“Come into the garden—it’s as light as day!”
“I can’t dance to that Hungarian stuff,
The rhythm in it is not passionate enough,”
Said somebody. “I absolutely refuse….”
But he took off his socks and his shoes
And round he spun. “It’s like Hungarian fruit dishes
Hard and bright—a mechanical blue!”
His white feet flicked in the grass like fishes…
Someone cried: “I want to dance, too!”
But one with a queer Russian ballet head
Curled up on a blue wooden bench instead.
And another, shadowy—shadowy and tall—
Walked in the shadow of the dark house wall,
Someone beside her. It shone in the gloom,
His round grey hat, like a wet mushroom.
“Don’t you think perhaps…” piped someone’s flute.
“How sweet the flowers smell!” I heard the other say.
Somebody picked a wet, wet pink,
Smelled it and threw it away.
“Is the moon a virgin or is she a harlot?”
Asked somebody. Nobody would tell.
The faces and the hands moved in a pattern
As the music rose and fell,
In a dancing, mysterious, moon-bright pattern
Like flowers nodding under the sea…
The music stopped and there was nothing left of them
But the moon dancing over the tree.
The Storm
I Ran to the forest for shelter,
Breathless, half sobbing;
I put my arms round a tree,
Pillowed my head against the rough bark.
“Protect me,” I said. “I am a lost child.”
But the tree showered silver drops on my face and hair.
A wind sprang up from the ends of the earth;
It lashed the forest together.
A huge green wave thundered and burst over my head.
I prayed, implored, “Please take care of me!”
But the wind pulled at my cloak and the rain beat upon
me.
Little rivers tore up the ground and swamped the bushes.
A frenzy possessed the earth: I felt that the earth was
drowning
In a bubbling cavern of space. I alone—
Smaller than the smallest fly—was alive and terrified.
Then for what reason I know not, I became trium-
phant
“Well, kill me!” I cried and ran out into the open.
But the storm ceased: the sun spread his wings
And floated serene in the silver pool of the sky.
I put my hands over my face: I was blushing.
And the trees swung together and delicately laughed.
Now I Am a Plant, a Weed
Now I am a plant, a weed,
Bending and swinging
On a rocky ledge;
And now I am a long brown grass
Fluttering like flame;
I am a reed;
An old shell singing
For ever the same;
A drift of sedge;
A white, white stone;
A bone;
Until I pass
Into sand again,
And spin and blow
To and fro, to and fro,
On the edge of the sea
In the fading light—
For the light fades.
But if you were to come you would not say:
“She is not waiting here for me;
She has forgotten.” Have we not in play
Disguised ourselves as weed and stones and grass
While the strange ships did pass
Gently, gravely, leaving a curl of foam
That uncurled softly about our island home,
Bubbles of foam that glittered on the stone
Like rainbows? Look, darling! No, they are gone.
And the white sails have melted into the sailing sky…
Jangling Memory
Heavens above! here’s an old tie of your—
Sea-green dragons stamped on a golden ground.
Ha! Ha! Ha! What children we were in those days.
Do you love me enough to wear it now?
Have you the courage of your pristine glories?
Ha! Ha! Ha! You laugh and shrug your shoulders.
Those were the days when a new tie spelt a fortune:
We wore it in turn—I flaunted it as a waist-belt.
Ha! Ha! Ha! What easily satisfied babies.
“I think I’ll turn into a piano duster.”
“Give it to me, I’ll polish my slippers on it!”
Ha! Ha! Ha! The rag’s not worth the dustbin.
“Throw the shabby old thing right out of the window;
Fling it into the faces of other children!”
Ha! Ha! Ha! We laughed and laughed till the tears
came!
