THE DARK FORTNIGHT.

Otago Witness, Issue 3829, 2 August 1927, Page 74

THE DARK FORTNIGHT.

Oh, I could weep with despair, In this blind, barren time, For themes that have loosened their hair And dangled the glittering strands For other eyes than mine And hands that are not my hands. Helen’s bitter loveliness

Took Homer by the heart and cried Out against 'death with such distress That he must build a house of words To keep her, in her crimson pride, Laughing forever above swords.

Joyous sylvaneries among The sullen poppies of the south So loosened Theocritus’ tongue That songs ran from it in a rain, Honey and myrtle sweet —what mouth Dare sing of Arcady again?

There is no more to be said Of battles, gallimaufries, kings, Love feasting on starry bread Or love crying with bitter cry— All that’s to be said of these things Was said at Shottery.

And that old hawk of the west Lured with his dark Egyptian eyes The breast of legend to his breast, And queens, yellow-haired and young. Drew the tides of shadowy seas Into the full moon of his song.

I will go find mo a epear Of wild-goose-feather wrought, And fashion the ears of a ’ hare To a parchment of silk, And pray to the ewes of thought To let down their milk. . . . —Pamela Travers, in the Irish Statesman.