New Zealand Verse/A Spring Afternoon in New Zealand
For other versions of this work, see A Spring Afternoon in New Zealand.
XVII.
A Spring Afternoon in New Zealand.
We rode in the shadowy place of pines,
The wind went whispering here and there
Like whispers in a house of prayer.
The sunshine stole in narrow lines,
And sweet was the resinous atmosphere,
The shrill cicada, far and near,
Piped on his high exultant third.
Summer! Summer! he seems to say—
Summer! He knows no other word,
But trills on it the live-long day;
The little hawker of the green,
Who calls his wares through all the solemn forest scene.
The wind went whispering here and there
Like whispers in a house of prayer.
The sunshine stole in narrow lines,
And sweet was the resinous atmosphere,
The shrill cicada, far and near,
Piped on his high exultant third.
Summer! Summer! he seems to say—
Summer! He knows no other word,
But trills on it the live-long day;
The little hawker of the green,
Who calls his wares through all the solemn forest scene.
A shadowy land of deep repose!
Here when the loud nor’ wester blows,
How sweet, to soothe a trivial care,
The pine-trees’ ever-murmured prayer!
To shake the scented powder down
From stooping boughs that bar the way,
And see the vistas, golden brown,
Touch the blue heaven far away.
But on and upward still we ride
Whither the furze, an outlaw bold,
Scatters along the bare hillside
Handfuls of free, uncounted gold,
And breaths of nutty, wild perfume,
Salute us from the flowering broom.
Here when the loud nor’ wester blows,
How sweet, to soothe a trivial care,
The pine-trees’ ever-murmured prayer!
To shake the scented powder down
From stooping boughs that bar the way,
And see the vistas, golden brown,
Touch the blue heaven far away.
But on and upward still we ride
Whither the furze, an outlaw bold,
Scatters along the bare hillside
Handfuls of free, uncounted gold,
And breaths of nutty, wild perfume,
Salute us from the flowering broom.
I love this narrow, sandy road,
That idly gads o’er hill and vale,
Twisting where once a rivulet flowed,
With as many turns as a gossip’s tale.
I love this shaky, creaking bridge,
And the willow leaning from the ridge,
Shaped like some green fountain playing,
And the twinkling windows of the farm,
Just where the woodland throws an arm
To hear what the merry stream is saying.
That idly gads o’er hill and vale,
Twisting where once a rivulet flowed,
With as many turns as a gossip’s tale.
I love this shaky, creaking bridge,
And the willow leaning from the ridge,
Shaped like some green fountain playing,
And the twinkling windows of the farm,
Just where the woodland throws an arm
To hear what the merry stream is saying.
Stop the horses for a moment, high upon the breezy stair,
Looking over plain and upland, and the depth of summer air,
Watch the cloud and shadow sailing o’er the forest’s sombre breast;
Misty capes and snow-cliffs glimmer on the ranges to the west.
Hear the distant thunder rolling; surely ’tis the making tide,
Swinging all the blue Pacific on the harbour’s iron side. . . .
Now the day grows grey and chill, but see on yonder wooded fold,
Between the clouds a ray of sunshine slips, and writes a word in gold.
Looking over plain and upland, and the depth of summer air,
Watch the cloud and shadow sailing o’er the forest’s sombre breast;
Misty capes and snow-cliffs glimmer on the ranges to the west.
Hear the distant thunder rolling; surely ’tis the making tide,
Swinging all the blue Pacific on the harbour’s iron side. . . .
Now the day grows grey and chill, but see on yonder wooded fold,
Between the clouds a ray of sunshine slips, and writes a word in gold.