Page:A New Zealand verse (1906).pdf/282

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246
A Temple Service.
Dawn’s cold pale forehead with the black
      Night-hair pushed back,
Flushed feet of eve, that walk the west,
      Were caught and pressed.

people.

Yet ere the months had failed of flower,
  Their branch of time
Grew heavy with a ripening hour,
  God’s plant of prime.

More precious than the whitening wheat.
  Or swollen fig;
Sweeter than palm fruit peeled to eat,
  Or grapes grown big.

priests.

Made-music for the harps we string,
      The silver ring
Of beaten cymbals which we raise
      On feasting days,

And on the lips of sweetest singers,
      Between the fingers
Of those that pluck at silver wires
      Of writhen lyres.

people.

A psalm upon the psalteries,
  On shawms a song,
Upon the horns great harmonies,
  Blown loud and long;