Page:A New Zealand verse (1906).pdf/88
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52
The Passing of the Forest.
XXVI.
The Passing of the Forest.
All glory cannot vanish from the hills,
Their strength remains, their stature of command,
Their flush of colour when calm evening stills
Day’s clamour, and the sea-breeze cools the land.
Refreshed when rain-clouds swell a thousand rills,
Ancient of days in green old age they stand
In grandeur that can never know decay,
Though from their flanks men strip the woods away.
Their strength remains, their stature of command,
Their flush of colour when calm evening stills
Day’s clamour, and the sea-breeze cools the land.
Refreshed when rain-clouds swell a thousand rills,
Ancient of days in green old age they stand
In grandeur that can never know decay,
Though from their flanks men strip the woods away.
But thin their vesture now—the restless grass,
Bending and dancing as the breeze goes by,
Catching quick gleams and cloudy shades that pass,
As shallow seas reflect a wind-stirred sky.
Ah! nobler far their forest raiment was
From crown to feet that clothed them royally,
Shielding their mysteries from the glare of day,
Ere the dark woods were reft and torn away.
Bending and dancing as the breeze goes by,
Catching quick gleams and cloudy shades that pass,
As shallow seas reflect a wind-stirred sky.
Ah! nobler far their forest raiment was
From crown to feet that clothed them royally,
Shielding their mysteries from the glare of day,
Ere the dark woods were reft and torn away.
Well may these plundered and insulted kings,
Stripped of their robes, despoiled, uncloaked, discrowned,
Draw down the clouds with white enfolding wings,
And soft aerial fleece to wrap them round,
To hide the scars that every season brings,
The fire’s black smirch, the landslip’s gaping wound;
Well may they shroud their heads in mantle grey,
Since from their brows the leaves were plucked away.
Stripped of their robes, despoiled, uncloaked, discrowned,
Draw down the clouds with white enfolding wings,
And soft aerial fleece to wrap them round,
To hide the scars that every season brings,
The fire’s black smirch, the landslip’s gaping wound;
Well may they shroud their heads in mantle grey,
Since from their brows the leaves were plucked away.