Page:A New Zealand verse (1906).pdf/186

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At Home.
The roof is tined with cedar-wood, The panels golden pine,The lattice set with lozenges, And hung with crimson fine.
The pear-tree wraps her oriel; Musk fills the window-frame;Her paroquet sits in the ring, And twitters out her name.
The circling landscape underneath Glows through its misty veil;The thunder-cloud against the wind Beats up, a blackening sail.
The sea, that shone like silver scales, Fades, tarnished by its breath;The shaking poplar turns her face As in a wind of death.
Still half the fields return the sun, Still laughs the running wheat:The bird sings on—one sheet of flame! And now the thunders meet.
But up within the turret-room How still it is, how warm!Shut, like the water-lily’s cup That closes in the storm.
A kitten coiled upon the chair, A half-wrought broidery,Books on the wall, and passing dreams— Perchance a dream of me!
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