Exile
For a friend.)

When I was young, and gypsy heart was eager,
When love was sweet, and carefree heart was gay,
I bid good-bye to home and those who loved me
With laughing words that said: “Of course, one day
I will return to roam the lanes of England,
To stroll, and gather cobnuts by the way.”

Now I am old. The starry white clematis
Clings fondly with the fern beside my door,
The red pohutukawa flings a blossom
Borne by the breeze across a smiling shore,
Yet all I ask is for the woods of England
To linger with the lark for evermore.

The strident, thrilling echo of the haka
Swings clearly through the tropic sky to me;
I watch the maidens sway to native dances,
Their chant is incense burning; I can see
Again, the quaint old inns of England
And the blue bells waving in the lea.
For youth has gone: the reckless soul is settled;
It seeks for home, the old familiar hearth.
But still I tend with care the golden kowhai,
Still loiter down the alien bushland path.
And though I yearn, I wonder, too, my England,
If dreams must e'er content my pining heart.

—A.L.W.