Page:A New Zealand verse (1906).pdf/191
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The Mother.
155
Their hearts are fluttering to condole
With grief such tenderest pity moving—
And she a gentle lonely soul,
That no one ever thought of loving!
With grief such tenderest pity moving—
And she a gentle lonely soul,
That no one ever thought of loving!
XC.
The Mother.
My heart is o’erflowing,
My foot treads the foam,
Go tell to the wide world
My son has come home
From the far-rolling north sea,
Where mermaidens cry,
Where the sun, all the week long,
Goes round in the sky,
Where the ice-cliffs break seaward
With thunder-loud fall,
From the pale northern dancers—
He comes from you all!
My foot treads the foam,
Go tell to the wide world
My son has come home
From the far-rolling north sea,
Where mermaidens cry,
Where the sun, all the week long,
Goes round in the sky,
Where the ice-cliffs break seaward
With thunder-loud fall,
From the pale northern dancers—
He comes from you all!
Go, seek in the oak-chest
The blue-flowered plate,
The bowl like an eggshell,
The cup’s silver mate.
Lay on the round table
The damask so fine,
And cut the black cluster
Still left on the vine.
The blue-flowered plate,
The bowl like an eggshell,
The cup’s silver mate.
Lay on the round table
The damask so fine,
And cut the black cluster
Still left on the vine.