New Zealand Verse/Two Voices
LII.
Two Voices.
To the brilliant streets and bustle of a city full of Spring,
To the soft, contented river and the sleeping, shining spires,
From the distant hills disrobing there are messages a-wing,
From the splendid dusks and dawnings, from the flaming sunset fires.
To the soft, contented river and the sleeping, shining spires,
From the distant hills disrobing there are messages a-wing,
From the splendid dusks and dawnings, from the flaming sunset fires.
I have heard them through the clamor of the people in the sun,
And the winds that whine at midnight when the city is at rest;
And the harpstrings of my heart are set a-trembling one by one
Till the sweeping of their wide and keen harmonics calls me West.
And the winds that whine at midnight when the city is at rest;
And the harpstrings of my heart are set a-trembling one by one
Till the sweeping of their wide and keen harmonics calls me West.
Oh! the dew of darkling mornings on the grasses green and grey!
Oh! the flush before the saffron, and the blushes of the snow!
Dark ratas stalking down the gorge (a-waiting for the day)
To the sheen of rippling waters in the shingle sweep below!
Oh! the flush before the saffron, and the blushes of the snow!
Dark ratas stalking down the gorge (a-waiting for the day)
To the sheen of rippling waters in the shingle sweep below!
The threads of fire on mountain-sides in purple of the night—
The dusted gold of tussocks and the music of the fords—
The gorse and wattle flame that sets the dusty road alight—
The thin, bright air—my harmony has all of these for chords.
The dusted gold of tussocks and the music of the fords—
The gorse and wattle flame that sets the dusty road alight—
The thin, bright air—my harmony has all of these for chords.
But from eastward comes the call of glistening beaches, sleeping bays,
And the pale, thin, shivering grasses in the land-wind set astir;
And the lace of broken rollers, wove for us in summer days,
When I sought my ocean mother with my love, and found her fair.
And the pale, thin, shivering grasses in the land-wind set astir;
And the lace of broken rollers, wove for us in summer days,
When I sought my ocean mother with my love, and found her fair.
Oh the beach, of worlds forsaken! Oh the pressure of soft hands,
In our lotus-land of ocean, lulled to mellow minor keys!
Oh the kiss among the lupins, green among the grey of sands,
When our swaying souls were shaken in the rush of roaring seas!
In our lotus-land of ocean, lulled to mellow minor keys!
Oh the kiss among the lupins, green among the grey of sands,
When our swaying souls were shaken in the rush of roaring seas!
How golden were the evenings in that slumbrous summer weather,
When we plucked the scarlet poppies of delight and of desire!
How musical the mornings when we wandered forth together!
All royal the sea-kingdom where our feet could never tire.
When we plucked the scarlet poppies of delight and of desire!
How musical the mornings when we wandered forth together!
All royal the sea-kingdom where our feet could never tire.
Rival chimings, murmuring still of mountain pleasure, sea delight,
Mocking melodies of memories of what I loved the most:
When morning’s golden promises have rolled away the night,
It is cold in this my city, and the music all is lost.
Mocking melodies of memories of what I loved the most:
When morning’s golden promises have rolled away the night,
It is cold in this my city, and the music all is lost.
M. C. Keane.