Page:A New Zealand verse (1906).pdf/250

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214
Night Island.
White slender cones, volcanoes steep,Piercing dark clouds whose masses sleep O’er tree-clad capes.
Forth wafted over the dim floodThe odours of the enchanted wood Fresh earth-scents bear;Flowers of starlight, wizard dews,Scents of the mould and leaf, confuse The clean, salt air.
Is that the echo of the surgeCaught in yon winding, deepening gorge? Is that the voiceOf yonder foam-pale waterfall,Of whose blown spray the tree-ferns tall Drink and rejoice?
It is no stream’s, no surge’s wail,No night-voice of a mountain vale. Lo,—swells the chant!A human strain is in my earsOf manhood’s passion, woman’s tears, And dreams that haunt,
Dreams of the lost ideal, ruthFor boyhood’s faith and gallant truth And youth's brave will;Then keenest joy, dear hopes and kindThat thrill the heart, glad tears that blind Tired eyes,—and still,
Stayed by a spell the magic boatA bow-shot from the shore must float Nor touch the strand,
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