Page:A New Zealand verse (1906).pdf/61
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A Colonist in his Garden.
25
“No art?” Who serve an art more great
Than we, rough architects of State
With the old Earth at strife?
“No colour?” On the silent waste,
In pigments not to be effaced,
We paint the hues of life.
Than we, rough architects of State
With the old Earth at strife?
“No colour?” On the silent waste,
In pigments not to be effaced,
We paint the hues of life.
“A land without a past?” Nay, nay.
I saw it, forty years this day.
—Nor man, nor beast, nor tree:
Wide, empty plains where shadows pass
Blown by the wind o’er whispering grass
Whose sigh crept after me.
I saw it, forty years this day.
—Nor man, nor beast, nor tree:
Wide, empty plains where shadows pass
Blown by the wind o’er whispering grass
Whose sigh crept after me.
Now when at midnight round my doors
The gale through sheltering branches roars,
What is it to the might
Of the mad gorge-wind that o’erthrew
My camp—the first I pitched—and blew
Our tents into the night?
The gale through sheltering branches roars,
What is it to the might
Of the mad gorge-wind that o’erthrew
My camp—the first I pitched—and blew
Our tents into the night?
Mine is the vista where the blue
And white-capped mountains close the view.
Each tapering cypress there
At planting in these hands was borne,
Small, shivering seedlings and forlorn,
When all the plain was bare!
And white-capped mountains close the view.
Each tapering cypress there
At planting in these hands was borne,
Small, shivering seedlings and forlorn,
When all the plain was bare!
Skies without music, mute through time,
Now hear the skylark’s rippling climb
Challenge their loftier dome.
And hark! A song of gardens floats,
Rills, gushes clear,—the self-same notes
Your thrushes flute at Home.
Now hear the skylark’s rippling climb
Challenge their loftier dome.
And hark! A song of gardens floats,
Rills, gushes clear,—the self-same notes
Your thrushes flute at Home.