A venture in verse

Nicholls, Marjory, Whitcombe and Tombs, Auckland, N.Z., 1917

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The original publication details are as follows:

Title: A venture in verse

Author: Nicholls, Marjory

Published: Whitcombe and Tombs, Auckland, N.Z., 1917

A Venture in Verse

BY MARJORY NICHOLLS

WHITCOMBE AND TOMBS LIMITED

PUBLISHERS

Auckland. Chribtchurch, Duneoin Wellington

Melbourne and London

1917

Foreword

To those who have passed through the academical groves of Victoria University College, the author of the following verses will need no introduction. Nor indeed is it required in the case of those who have not, for the verses will speak for her much more eloquently than any words of mine can do. For though most of them have made their first appearance in the College Magazine, they are of much wider interest and sympathy than cloistered productions are wont to be, and their founts and origins are scattered far and wide over the stretches of the earth.

Imaginative without being turgid, facile without being slovenly, Miss Nicholls's verse has above all the rare distinction of a freshness and thoughtfulness, without which all verse is but body without spirit. These qualities should assure for it the warm welcome and appreciation which it certainly deserves.

S. EICHELBAUM.

DEDICATED TO MY FRIENDS NEAR AND FAR

Index

Page

A Would-Be Wanderer 9-10

Three Gifts 11

Joie de Vivre 13

Carpe Diem 14-15

Little Daughter 16

O Give Me Peace 17

Lady Mine 18

A Fleeting Gleam 19

Depression 20

Viola 21

From the Deck 22

Botsabelo 23

Red Hibiscus in a Sydney Street 24

A Melbourne Rescue Home 25

Sonnet to M.F. 26

At Cambridge, May 1914 27

June Evening at Beaconsfield 28

In a Theatre Queue 29

On Salisbury Plain 30

In Memoriam, June 15th, 1915 31

An Oxford Memory 32

A Soldier Dying 33

Colpetti Road, Colombo 34

A Little Place Apart 35

The Wood-Nymph 36

Joan of Arc 37

My Dreams for You 38

Poppies 39

No Angels Four 40

She Clothed Herself in Dreams 41

A Memory in London 42

Cruel Fear 43

When I am Old 44

Judgment Day 45

A Would-Be Wanderer

Voices call—

I cry "I come!''

After all

I stay at home.

Why cannot I throw my cares away,

And journey forth like Paragot

'Long roads where tall, straight poplars grow,

And the sun beats white on the dust all day>

Rest at an inn (if it come my way),

For I'll walk any road I please,

Chanting verse from Euripides

Or Villon's ballads of yesterday.

Or 1011, Bohemian-wise, and dream

About Verlaine or Baudelaire—

That poet strange with pea-green hair.

Who supped, o' nights, from a skull of cream

And on out of France and into Spain,

Seeking castles I once built there;

Finding them where they always were—

Up in the air, with the clouds and rain,

From castanets with their dizzy click,

Away with feet that never tire,

Till I've fulfilled my heart's desire—

(Tho' roads be rocky and rain-mist thick).

9

To look right well into lives and ways.

To try to understand the earth,

To learn the import and the worth

Of the little deeds that fill our days.

Then, following still my calling voice,

Hear the world's winds in many woods,

And satisfy my many moods,

And feel my life grow, and so, rejoice.

Voices call —

I cry, "I come!"

After all

I stay at home.

"The Spike," 1911.

10

Three Gifts

I sat on the grass

Beneath a green tree;

There were three little loves

Came flying to me—

One bore a red rose,

One bore a white,

One bore a nettle,

Clasping it tight.

So I stretched out my hand

For the roses sweet.

The Love with the nettle

Stood quiet at my feet.

"The red rose for Love,

The white for Faith

Nettles for Pain,"

Was all he saith.

So I took the red rose,

And I took the white,

And I took the nettles

And grasped them so tight.

For L.ife should give Love,

And Love needs Faith;

And Life will bring Pain,

As the wee Love saith.

Wellington, 1911.

11

Welcome

little fairies, come!

From the bluebells neath the tree,

From the white foam on the sea—

Whisper sweetly unto me

As I lie here drowsily,

Little fairies, come!

Little brownies, come!

Leave the acorns on the oak,

Leave the busy forest folk,

Fly down through the chimney smoke—

Little brownies, come!

Little pixies, come!

From the dock-leaves by the stream

Where the speckled trout do gleam

In the sun's bright, glancing beam—

Bring me, each of you, a dream—

Little pixies, come!

Lower Hutt, 1911.

12

Joie de Vivre

Joy flashed with a stream down a mountain-side

Where I washed my face at dawn,

When the sun leaped up and laughed at the world,

And the gladsome day was born.

Joy walked with me straight down the mountain-path,

And along the dusty ways;

She laughed with the breeze, and sang with the birds,

That fairest of summer days.

When I slept at noon-tide she filled my dreams,

Then waked me quick to see

The sunlight that danced on the river blue,

The beauty of grass and tree.

And then on thro' the golden afternoon,

And into the woodland ways,

Where the twilight shadows were soft and green,

All hid from the sun's hot rays.

When the sun grew tired and sank from our sight,

And the grey dusk reigned instead,

joy led me along thro' the village street

In search of a meal and bed.

And when I had supped and mused for awhile,

To bed I went, well-content;

The smile on my lips was my prayer of thanks.

For a day with Joy. well-spent.

" The Spike," 1911.

13

Carpe Diem

Oh the world is fair to see!

This I found out suddenly.

When I looked forth from my window on an early summer-day.

So I left my books behind.

Ran out where the sun and wind,

Vied together in caressing rustling leaves and flowers gay.

Oh, a flower fair there grew,

Glowing purple, rich in hue;

I reached eager hands to pluck it, captivated at the sight.

But I stopped, for to my ear

Came a voice so calm and clear,

Where a sage stood smiling somewhat at my eager youth's delight.

"So," said he, "youth's eagerness,

Grasping fleeting happiness,

Spoiling, therefore, in its blindness life's long-lasting riper fruit!

Leave the garden blowing bright

In your books find all delight.

Wait till Autumn, and remember from the seed will spring the root.”

So I went back to rny books

Not without some backward looks

At the flower, nodding brightly, half-inviting me to stay.

But consoled myself and said,

"Why the flower soon is dead;

But the fruit will give me others; I shall have a tree one day."

14

Hard I worked both day and night

While the summer time was bright,

And the birds were fluting sweetly and the trees were thick with leaves;

Right on through the Autumn warm

When the fruits began to form

Till the leaves began to yellow, and the men had bound the sheaves.

Oh, the world is grey to see,

This I found out suddenly

When I looked forth from my window on an Autumn afternoon

For the trees were growing bare,

And a chill was in the air

"I must go to seek my fruitage; it behoves me to go soon."

But I read till night, and then

Flung aside my book and pen,

Saying, "I shall go to-morrow, pluck my fruit to-morrow morn.'

While I tried in vain to sleep,

Came a storm with thunder deep,

And that night amid its moaning, Winter, wailing child, was born.

Not a fruit was there to see

When I came unto my tree —

While the garden shivered round me in its scarecrow winter suit;

And the wind, so piercing cold

Mocked me crying, "You are old!''

And I turned away so slowly, sans my flower, sans my fruit.

"The Reporter," 1911.

15

Little Daughter

My daughter, my little child

Who, but yesterday

Was, in my count of the years

But a child at play;

My daughter, my little child

Now wanders apart

Obsessed with some secret thought—

Some sorrow of heart.

My daughter, my little child—

I drew to my side—

But never a word she said

In her maiden pride—

My daughter, my little child—

I learnt of her grief—

She shivered and shook in my arms

Like a wind-tossed leaf.

My daughter, my little child

Her love would not say,

But sobbed of Life's loneliness

And its thorny way.

My daughter, my little child

With the blue above

Saw only the grey of things—

Oh, bitter was love!

Wellington. 1912.

16

O. Give Me Peace

The sun is white upon the streets;

The dust is thick upon the pane;

And summer, with its burning heats.

Has dried my life, and tired my brain.

The busy clock ticks ceaselessly,

And people talk, but little say;

While thoughts that struggle to be free

Fail in the fight and die away.

When will the twilight shadows come

And make the day-things so It and grey?

Then shall I walk when eve has come,

And try to find some peaceful way

And pushing at an old church-door,

Find as I tread the dim, hushed aisle

A calm my yearning fades before,

I'll shut my mind and brain awhile,

Woo memory, and kneel and pray;

The simple words unrest bid cease;

So for this moment of the day

I'll have what I am seeking, "Peace."

" The Spike," 1912.

17

Lady Mine

I do see you, Lady Mine,

In that half-awaking time,

When the creeping moonbeams find

Access thro’ my lacey blind,

Filling all my little room

With a pearly glimm'ring gloom;

Then you come in thoughts to me

Like a sweet reality.

Not a timid sheltered maid,

Primrose-like, 'neath leafy shade,

But who has with Sorrow stept,

Known Earth's griefs and for them wept;

And the knowledge leaves you kind;

Tho' you've felt the bitter wind,

You thought always, when it blew,

Of those sheltered less than you.

And your voice is soft and sweet,

Slow to rate, and swift to greet.

You’ve for friend the cunning sprite

Humour, with his rogue's delight!

You love flowers, tender things,

Babies' smiles; a bird that sings;

Reading, and the many tasks

That a little household asks.

In your woman-thoughts, so wise;

Life-love shining in your eyes,

Round my heart you do entwine,

And I love you, Lady Mine!

"The Spike, 1912.

18

A Fleeting Gleam

Love in your life has flashed

Like water white down a fall—

Laughing, vivid and bright

But passing—and that was all.

Wellington, 1913.

19

Depression

My mind is like a wretched room,

So bare, so drear;

Dull with a heavy, ugly gloom,

No light, no cheer.

My thoughts are like the beetles black

That creep the floor,

Scurry and hide in yawning crack

In wall and door.

My feelings,—like the meagre light

My candle gives,

So faint, so fearful of the night,

It scarcely lives.

My outlook through a dingy pane-

Distress and sin—

Or if I turn around again

To look within—

My room is but a sordid place—

The paper torn,

Nothing of beauty there, nor grace,

All mean, forlorn.

" The Spike," 1912.

20

Sonnet

Viola

A maiden in the Springtime of her years

Looked for her Summertime before 'twas due;

And dreamed a dream of love, and wished it true,

And many nights were long with sighs and tears.

She kept love secret, with a thousand fears

Lest one might drag her treasure into view,

And in her heart her treasure richer grew,

Piled up with love's high thought, that Heaven nears.

But, as time passed, the gems their lustre lost,

And she grew sad awhile, but then took heart,

For somewhere in Life's garden proudly stands

(And she will find it someday, there apart)

A tree, whose blossoms, by the glad winds tossed.

Will fall like showered love into her hands.

"The Spike,'' 1913.

24

From the Deck (Indian Ocean)

I looked at the rim of the world, where no land is,

But only the sea and sky;

And I thought of the red-roofed, climbing town.

Where the streets run up, and the streets dip down,

And the cool land breeze blows by.

I looked at the racing clouds that flecked no hills,

But only shadowed the sea;

And I thought of the play over fern and grass.

Of the glooms of shade as the quick clouds pass,

And the wind drives by in glee.

I looked at the heaving blue, where no peace is,

But only unrest alway;

And I thought of the hills that steadfast stand,

While the wise old stars look down on the land,

And the world gains strength for day.

I looked at the blue above, and the blue beneath,

And my heart grew soon to know

The wonderful beauty of changeful things,

The joy of the spray; of a bird's white wings—

And I felt happier so.

"The Spike," 1914.

22

Botsabelo

(A Mission Station in the East Transvaal)

How wide the sky that smiles above the land,

How red the road that cuts across the veldt;

Into the sky's fair blue the far hills melt;

While in the foreground knobbled kopjes stand.

The Cape-cart bumps on stones, and sinks in sand,

The white-hot sun makes all its power felt;

The mules strain hard, urged by the sharp blows dealt

By the brown Kaffir driver's practised hand.

And then the veldt's monotony was changed;

We passed into a valley, green and fair;

We saw a church-spire rising to the sky,

And heard soft native voices chanting there;

In the green fields the mild-eyed oxen ranged

And smiling, brown-faced children hastened by.

Krugersdorp, 1914

26

Sonnet

Red Hibiscus in a Sydney Street

When I look up and see your flaunting head

And the long tongue that serpent-like shoots out,

I ask, as swift thoughts throng in revellers' rout,

What in the world as wicked is as red?

I see a columned hall and tables spread,

A woman, white and red, with smiles that flout,

Two wine-flushed suitors and a sudden shout,.

Quarrel's quick curses, and the .ed wine shed—

A gleam of swords, a bright and startling stain;

Fear's frantic flight, and silence in the hall;

Save when the night-wind strays in, flower-sweet,

And from the gutt'ring candles white drops fall.

Hibiscus, you do breathe of passion's pain—

Why do you glow by this grey city street?

" The Spike, 1914.

_»l

Sonnet

A Melbourne Rescue Home

There stood a house square-built, of warm brown stone,

And over it the sky was stainless blue—

While in the dusty garden round it, grew

Thin holly-hocks, and olives, lanky grown.

The spirit of the place I thought was shown

By the sad flowers, and the grey dust too,

And when the open door I entered through

My soul was heavy and my heart made moan.

But when a mother face there shone on me

And when I saw a little sleeping child

My bitterness fell from me suddenly;

And then a golden, glancing sunbeam smiled

In at a window, and there seemed to be

Hope smiling with it, strong, serene and mild.

Adelaide, 1914.

25

Sonnet (To M.F.)

Prayers such as others pray are hard to me,

The God I strive to know doth ask not prayers;

I do not tell Him of my woes and cares,

He knows them all and bade them come, maybe.

My thanks I give to Him in laughter free;

I sigh reproach o'er the sad world's affairs;

He cannot be omnipotent, who dares

(I then do think) such misery let be.

But, when I think of thee, oh friend of mine,

Then I love God, and thank Him for thy life;

The wonder of His world amazes me;

All things in order move and not in strife.

The God that shaped so fair a life as thine

Will shape to wondrous ends all things that be.

London, Nov., 1914.

26

Sonnet

At Cambridge, May, 1914

The silver river first, a mirrow fair

Wherein the May tree's loveliness is seen;

Then comes a stretch of daisy-starred green,

Hedged with great elms, the cuckoos calling there;

The scent of lilac steals upon the air,

Pale gold laburnums o'er the waters lean;

A copper beech-tree, of a wond'rous sheen

Glowing in sunlight, is a splendour rare.

Past colleges and ancient garden-walls,

Under the bridge's arch we slowly glide;

We talk of this and that, of other days;

Our hands we dabble in Cam's cooling tide;

And now and then a silence on us falls,

For words are poor in which to sing thy praise.

" The Spike," 1914.

27

Sonnet

June Evening at Beaconsfield

(Bucks)

Like a trail of smoke from the sunset's flame

A long, frail wisp of cloud hung in the sky;

The west still glowed—the colour, loth to die,

Faded so slowly, and as slowly came

The gray of twilight, long ere it could claim

A conquest o'er the golden light on high,

Which yielded, paling; lastly with a sigh

It sank in grey enveloped—just as Fame

Sinks and is covered by the years that creep.

Dimmer and dimmer grew the ev'ning light;

Among the corn the poppies drowsed asleep,

The milky campions glimmered softly white,

The friendly elms a vigil calm did keep—

Guardians watching through the darkling night.

" The Reporter," 1915.

28

In a Theatre Queue

In double line along the theatre wall

Our long queue forms itself; nor do we find

Time heavy on our hands, for ev'ry kind

Of entertainer comes, and if some pall

Others slight talent have, and nearly all

Give some amusement, if you feel inclined

To study types. The cripple or the blind

Will ask your bounty, on your pity call.

Some old, old man with feeble voice will sing;

A nigger minstrel work off ancient gags;

A man tear paper into patterns gay,

The long strips fluttering in the wind like rags;

An acrobat will turn, and twist and spring;

And so—the waiting hour whiles away.

London, 1915.

29

Sonnet

On Salisbury Plain

On either hand stretched the green rolling plain—

Juniper plants, wind-bent, grew here and there

With swaying hare-bells, delicately fair.

A lark's song earthward fell like golden rain,

And I, upgazing, saw an aeroplane

Winging swift flight, and soon it landed where

The dun camp spread—the rows of huts, squat, square

And khaki-brown —victor Utility had Beauty slain.

And while I gazed I thought of England's age.

I saw the Hanging Stones in order set;

The straight white Roman roads, a heritage

Left to the Dane and Norman, and e'en yet

A path for soldiers—those who soon will wage

War for their England—paying Honour's debt.

"The Reporter," 1915.

30

Sonnet

In Memoriam, June 15th, 1915

(Service at St. Paul’s, for fallen Anzacs).

We saw the great Cathedral dome o'erhead

Clear cut against the tender primrose sky;

Then, while the London crowds were passing by,

We sat within and thought of our dear dead.

Above the choir the two flags hung outspread;

Once more the Southern Cross was seen on high

But mistily, by many a tear-dimmed eye,

Old hymns were sung, and simple prayers were said;

And word? of comfort and of hope were spoken,

All fain to help and cheer the weary-souled

And mend again the saddened hearts now broken

Then thro' the Church the mighty music rolled,

A wave of solace; lastly ebbed again

But bearing with it something of our pain.

" Free Lance," 1915.

31

Sonnet

An Oxford Memory

So quiet the air, it seemed to be asleep;

So still the water that it seemed to dream;

The very willows bending o'er the stream

There o'er its slumbers careful watch did keep.

Then, suddenly, there broke the silence deep

A song more golden than a bright sun-beam;

Like gems down-dropping those clear notes did seem;

In that bird's heart spring's gayest joy did leap.

The sky-lark's song at once awaked the world.

Like a great peail the sun on high was seen;

A little breeze ruffled the river grey

And sighed among the willow-branches green.

As 'neath the sun's warm rays their buds uncurled

With celandines the meadows wide grew gay.

Oxford, April, 1915.

32

Sonnet

A Soldier Dying

To help to shape—to die, before we know

What form and likeness our great work will take —

The rest with willing hands to mould and make

The work that we began, and, ending so,

The rest will stand, their bright eyes all aglow

With joy in the fulfilment! We'll ne'er wake

To hear the thundrous guns whose salvoes shake

The very skies, while glad processions go

Thro' the thronged streets, with streaming banners proud;

While people pour their thankful hearts in praise

That now has passed away the grim war-cloud;

And rosy Peace smiles through the sunlit days;

Though everywhere are heads in sorrow bowed,

Mindful of us, now hid in Death's dark ways.

"The Spike," 1916.

33

Sonnet

Colpetti Road, Colombo

A Futurist, what would he make of you,

If he stood 'fore his canvas, brush in hand?

What medley of form, at his brain's command

Would leap into being! And colours!—blue,

Red, yellow and green of the brightest hue

And contrasts that no-one can understand

Who never has walked in this sunlit land

Or gazed at its beauties till wonder grew.

Imagine a minute this long roadway

Where the pert crows strut, and palm-trees grow,

While the smoke from the hut-roofs curls blue-grey,

And by go the bullock-carts, creaking slow.

While ever, in many a colour gay,

Pass the quick thronging brown folk, to and fro.

Colombo, 1915.

34

"A Little Place Apart"

A little garden have I made me here,

Of tender, fragrant plants—none bright or gay—

And hither shall I come in twilight-time

To dream awhile of the dear yesterday.

A little breeze comes whispering from the Past—

A magic whisper, wondrous soft and sweet;

I kneel upon the path, to closer come

To those dear blossoms growing at my feet.

A little scent of lavender, so faint;

And rosemary—and that I pluck and hold

Thinking of you—Death came so soon to you.

Another breeze blows by. 'Tis strangely cold.

"The Spike," 1916.

38

The Wood Nymph

(To S.L.)

Once in the greenwood Dryads played

With shy sweet grace, and swift retreat

Into a dimmer forest-glade

Whene'er they heard a stranger's feet—

Those stealthy feet that were betrayed,

As on the moss they softly stept,

By dry, blown twigs, whose crackling made

The Dryads haste, as quick they crept

Into a welcome thicket’s shade;

While cunning Fauns and Satyrs grim

Made the rash stranger's heart afraid—

Unseen, they mocked and gibed at him.

Long ago are the Dryads fled,

But still we see their shy, sweet grace.

They must with mortals once have wed—

I've seen them smile in my Love's face.

The laughter soft that lured and led

The stranger into woodlands dim;

The graceful form that swiftly sped,

Just glimpsed thro' leafy shades by him;

The wind-kissed hair that crowned each head—

All these are hers; but in her eyes

There lurks no shadow of the dread

The Dryads felt at swift surprise;

For she on mortal love hath fed

And it hath made her passing wise.

London, 1915.

36

Joan of Arc

Fair as the lilies on your banner broidered;

Sweet as their namesakes growing mid the grass;

Bright as your word, miraculously given,

And never dimming, though the ages pass—

Such be the fame of you—

Dear be the name of you—

Joan, little daughter of God.

Fair are the churches, built your name to honour;

Sweet are the prayers that thence to Heaven fly;

Bright are the windows pictured with your story

And never dimming though the years sweep by—

Such is the fame of you—

Cherished the name of you—

Joan, little daughter oi God.

London, 1915.

40

My Dreams for You

God has denied me many of my dreams,

And so I weave them now for you alone

To hide your grey life from my aching eyes,

In robes of purple with the gold stars sewn.

All the high hopes your glad youth cherished once;

All the great deeds your man's heart longed to do;

The loved Ideal, now glimpsed, now vanishing—

All these I wot of, though untold by you.

These and a hundred sorrows, bravely borne;

These and your laughter and your tender thought

Have made your soul as fragrant as a ro>e,

And to my life a fresh'ning sweetness brought.

So let my tears be diamonds on thy robe;

For in your life Fame’s hopes to Duty bowed;

And only in my dreams you stand a King,

Above the upturned faces of the crowd.

1916.

41

Poppies

There are scarlet poppies in her garden-bed,

Debonair and full of glowing grace;

There are scarlet poppies in a field of France

And they're flaunting in her dead love's face.

"The Spike," 1917.

39

No Angels Four

No angels four watch by my bed

With folded wings and hands of prayer,

And fill my dreams with songs of peace

Or gleams of gold from aureoled hair.

The only watchers while I sleep

Are dim white stars far in the sky;

The only song that fills my dreams

The wind, world-wandering, blowing by.

Matthew and Mark and Luke and John

Four of God's saints in Hea\en bright—

Should they not watch God's children still,

Sad children desolate thro’ the night?

God made the night-wind, sighing soft,

And God's too, is each dim, white star—

But Earth is wide and Heaven high

And I am lonely while they are far.

" The Spike," 1917.

43

She Clothed Herself in Dreams

She clothed herself in dreams all magical—

Did ever Princess in a tale of old

Show half so daintily and rare as she

A lily exquisite—all white and gold?

Or like a shadowed tree, mysterious;

Eyes dark as pools where fallen stars do sleep;

A dim white face and smile inscrutable.

And hair whose strands a subtle fragrance keep.

With little hands so white and slim, yet strong

To take a heart and break it—willed she so—

And moods when laughter bubbled in the throat

And love was answered with a teasing, "No."

She hung a silver mirror in her heart

And in her dreams paced slowly there and smiled;

While other shadows thronging, paid her court,

And all who looked upon her were beguiled.

A little smile strays on her unkissed lips.

So drab and dull she looks, and yet it seems

As though some pale ioy lingers in her life—

Unloved she sits, and clothes herself in dreams.

" Spike," 1916.

■4l

A Memory in London

The high hills stretching westward are very green and fair,

The yellow gorse grows on them and sturdy, wind-brushed broom;

The winds from off the mountains come down to dally there,

And friendly stars shine o’er them through evening s softened gloom.

The grey and silver rain-mists come stealing gently down,

Looking for the forest trees, where now the grasses grow;

For lost has Tinakori its proudly-plumed crown.

And clear against the sky-line the long-backed ridges show.

A winding road goes climbing and looks down on the sea.

Over the blue waters and the island in the bay—

There's no place on the broad earth is lovelier to me—

With eyes fast closed I picture it, half the world away.

"The Reporter," 1916.

12

Cruel Fear

A Fear came knocking at my lonely heart;

So gaunt and grey he looked, I shook with dread;

His coming stilled my little, laughing Hopes,

All pale they stood and quiet as the dead.

With trembling hands I sought to bar the door;

My fingers failed, and in the grim Fear pressed;

My little Dreams and Hopes crept past and fled,

Winged by swift fear of my unbidden guest.

And there he stays, a shadow by my hearth,

And watches me with cold, cruel eyes alway;

Though once with groping hands I sought the door

Thinking I heard my little Dreams at play.

But as I went he mocked my eagerness

And Hope went shudd'ring from my lonely door;

The firelight died, the room grew stilly cold—

And there the grey fear sits for evermore.

"The Spike," 1917.

13

When I am Old

I shall be glad when I am old

To go to some quiet place.

And sit with folded hands, and know

That none will chicle my resting so,

For then I shall be old.

Wellington, 1916.

u

Judgment Day

Beauty I saw, upspringing from the ground;

Beauty I heard, down-floating from the sky;

The summer air was murmurous with sound;

And sweet with flower scents the wind stole by.

And in my hands a book that told of war;

Of cruelty, such as only men can do;

Of pain and sorrow such as ne'er before

This weary world has felt, tho' old in woe.

O God, for us Thou hast a Judgment Day!

Yet we, who both earth's pain and sorrow see,

Though to a God in anguished hope we pray,

Yet in our hearts each day are judging Thee!

October, 1917.

IS