Page:A New Zealand verse (1906).pdf/93
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Ver Sacrum.
57
Dost thou not hear, O White Man, through thy troubled dreaming
On this calm night when all the world lies stark,
Sharp through the silence, moaning of the sea, and screaming
Of night-birds in the dark?
On this calm night when all the world lies stark,
Sharp through the silence, moaning of the sea, and screaming
Of night-birds in the dark?
What! dost thou say, O White Man, shivering when the shrieking
Wild voices thrill thee in an agony of pain:
“Peace! ’tis the Ocean calling! ’tis the Dead Tree creaking!
Hush thee, my heart, again!”
Wild voices thrill thee in an agony of pain:
“Peace! ’tis the Ocean calling! ’tis the Dead Tree creaking!
Hush thee, my heart, again!”
They are not birds! the sea wails not in lamentation—
They are the Ghosts of Earth, of Air, that cry,
Moaning a requiem, in their utter desolation,
For old worlds passing by.
They are the Ghosts of Earth, of Air, that cry,
Moaning a requiem, in their utter desolation,
For old worlds passing by.
XXVIII.
Ver Sacrum.
Soft is the sun, and soft is the air, and soft is the Mother's breast;
Soft is the song she crooneth as I stretch me there to rest—
Song with its warp of wooing wind, and its weft of bird-notes clear:
How the heart it stills, and thrills, and fills . . .
’Tis Spring—oh, Spring is here!
Soft is the song she crooneth as I stretch me there to rest—
Song with its warp of wooing wind, and its weft of bird-notes clear:
How the heart it stills, and thrills, and fills . . .
’Tis Spring—oh, Spring is here!
David Will. M. Burn.