Page:A New Zealand verse (1906).pdf/191

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The Mother.
155
Their hearts are fluttering to condole With grief such tenderest pity moving—And she a gentle lonely soul, That no one ever thought of loving!

Mary Colborne-Veel.

XC.

The Mother.

My heart is o’erflowing, My foot treads the foam,Go tell to the wide world My son has come homeFrom the far-rolling north sea, Where mermaidens cry,Where the sun, all the week long, Goes round in the sky,Where the ice-cliffs break seaward With thunder-loud fall,From the pale northern dancers— He comes from you all!
Go, seek in the oak-chest The blue-flowered plate,The bowl like an eggshell, The cup’s silver mate.Lay on the round table The damask so fine,And cut the black cluster Still left on the vine.
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