Blackberries.

Nay, to-day we give no audience to patient Kings and Queens,
To the embassies of glittering English trees,
We refrain from curtsey-bobbing on the heart's bland village greens;
Our business is with blackberries.
To-day I whittle the world as a boy might whittle a stick
To a blue-cleft breathing valley and the blackberries bending over;
She is stained with berries and kisses, with the hard-pressed quick
Kisses of her blackberry lover.
Darken the juices of berries on sunsweet mouth and hands,
But his is the drawn pavilion of shadow under her breast,
And a gathering what may please him, in the brown and lavish lands
Whose lady bends the boughs at his behest.
And he may seek as he list new wine of passion or mirth,
Lady of old, frail porcelain, dryad of English trees.
But he shall remember the beating of her heart against the earth,
And the wild purple jest of blackberries.

—“Robin Hyde.”

* * *

Rotorua Lake.

A purpling twilight softly draws
Her restful misty veil
Across the Lake. Low in the sky
The first star, lone and pale
Awaits the coming of the host
By night revealed; I wait
Beside the Lake. I hear the sound
Of twilit silence.
'Tis the gate
To bygone mem'ries; to the past
Now dead and gone, it is the key:
Yet not dead—through the mist
Of even's veil once more I see
That bygone day….
There silent, lone, yet gratefully
In shadows wrapt, Mokoia sleeps
While from the wooded flanks
A phantom legend creeps.
Hark!
I hear a flute soft played!
Tutanekai… art there? And you
Friend Tiki, with the flute, who sweetly breaks
The hush of evening's depthless blue?
… Or is't the wind?…
I Hear the gentle lap of water…
The flute plays on to tell
A maiden on the mainland that
Her lover loves her well.
… Or is't the twilight breeze
Caressing all, and passing, lost,
Into the shades of night?

—Olga P. Meyer.

* * *

This Kind Of Fool.

This is the kind of fool I am,
When scarlet Rata first appears
And Golden Kowhais are in bloom,
Feel in my throat the catch of tears.
Then if I hear the huntsman's cry
Of Taliy Ho’ a wretched chill
Creeps down my spine, poor wretched hares
Destroy at once the sporting thrill.
My gay friends laugh, cry “Silly Fool”
Enthusing o'er a Toi Toi plume.
Why praise the stately Cabbage trees?
Walk on wet sands o'er sprayed with spume?
Place Manuka in vases tall?
Go crazy at the Tui's note?
The Teal that glide upon the stream
Like small brown dreams that careless float?
“Oh, what romantic nonsense now!”
Folk say if I chance to revere
The clear look of the frosty sky
Whose crescent moon brings Heaven near.
They pull the covers snugly up
Have curtains drawn and what they miss!
The flush of dawn o'er mountain tops
That fills the devotee with bliss.
No doubt I am half mad to cry
Like kindergarten child at school
When I see something wonderful,
Unless perchance I am God's Fool.

—Ruth M. Johnson.

Vision.

He went but faltr'ngly among the stars,
Nor could he see them, for the light they gave
Dazzled his eyes and made him truly blind.
He could no longer see at early dark
The tender swaying flowers who softly mark
The dear green earth, and trembling, lie,
Close pressed to her bosom till they die.
The blue-rimmed, brooding pools where Silence sleeps,
And the lost years, which Quiet holds and keeps,
And the far hills, half hidden in the rain—
All these were gone and could not come again.
So he had lost that which he most desired
And he went stumbling onwards, dazed and tired,
And from the brilliant place went wearily,
Leaving behind him stars he could not see.
And far down in the valley, where the grass
Made a soft carpet for his feet to pass
Down there, among the lowly mint and thyme
He paused a while and heard a birdnot chime.
He turned and saw a flower among the green,
He knelt and touched its softness and its sheen,
He looked and saw the misted hills afar,
And looking upwards, he beheld a Star!

—Isobel Andrews

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