Page:A New Zealand verse (1906).pdf/282
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246
A Temple Service.
Dawn’s cold pale forehead with the black Night-hair pushed back,Flushed feet of eve, that walk the west, Were caught and pressed.
people.
Yet ere the months had failed of flower, Their branch of timeGrew heavy with a ripening hour, God’s plant of prime.
More precious than the whitening wheat. Or swollen fig;Sweeter than palm fruit peeled to eat, Or grapes grown big.
priests.
Made-music for the harps we string, The silver ringOf beaten cymbals which we raise On feasting days,
And on the lips of sweetest singers, Between the fingersOf those that pluck at silver wires Of writhen lyres.
people.
A psalm upon the psalteries, On shawms a song,Upon the horns great harmonies, Blown loud and long;