FROM EXILE.

Auckland Star, Volume XL, Issue 17, 20 January 1909, Page 6

FROM EXILE.

Call to mc, call to mc fields of poppied wheat! Purple thistles by the road call mc to return! Now a thousand shriller throats echo down the street, And I cannot hear the wind camping in the fern. Little leaves beside tbe trail dance your way to town. Till you find your brother here who remembers yet; For though a river runs between and the bridge is down, I've a heart that's roaming and a soul that won't forget. A sun squats on the house-tops, but his face is hard and dry; A rain walks up and down the streets but Her voice is harsh— Sunlight is a different thing where the swallows fly, And rain-tongues sing with sweeter voice when they're on the march. Once a thousand blending blades stooped to let mc pass, When I sped barefooted through your crowding lines— Whisper to mc gently in the language of the grass, How I watched the crows of night nest among the pines. Still the golden pollen smokes, silver runs the rain, Still the timid! mists creep out \vhen the sun lies down— Oh, I am weary waiting to return to you' again, So take a pale, familiar face out beyond • the town. LLOYD ROBERTS.