HERSELF.

Waikato Times, Volume 102, Issue 17220, 1 October 1927, Page 13 (Supplement)

HERSELF.

WAITING FOR MY LADY.

(By u Darius.”)

She has been almost a year away and the time has seemed long. All through the dark days of winter I have pined for her, the gentle if somewhat wayward lady. All through the cold nights I have warmed my heart with memories of her gentle fires of ineffable flame. You do not know — you who are of the hustling materialists —how the times of terrible rain depress sensitive souls —how interminably Time can be in gloom and how brief in happiness and sunshine. How one’s peace of mind depends upon a simple message of good or ill! Do you know anything of the wear and tear of the human heart through the anxieties of waiting—just waiting to hear some word from some one to flash like light through the air, faster than wings of the fleetest birds? Do you know anything of waiting and waiting for Dawn through all the hours of the sleepless, idle dark? It was only last night that I lay watching through the unblinded window the multitude of stars between the tops of the tall dark trees and the little arc of the sky within my vision, and as Aldeberan set and Sirius slid into his place and The Cross “swung low to the moon,” saw the host pale and die out, until there remained in my sight but a single star —a golden star. You know how, as you steadfastly ■watch an object it seems to take to itself movement. So it was with that lone star hung in the paling sky. And the two points of the star to right and left became wings of golden light. And the topmost point became the keen head of a bird. And there was the body of it and the lower part veiled in a purpling mist. Behold a golden skylark, that rose and soared and hovered and sank and rose again, still and ever fluttering those golden wings, pulling through all its body and choiring to the glad-eyed cherubim for I swear I heard the Star sing, and I knew it was singing of My Lady. . . .

A Devotional Soul. And there is another bird that Is a devotional soul. Waiting again for the slow dawn I heard him communing with his God. The voice of his communion was a gentle voice, though not indeed a song. Believe nothing more from me if you believe not this « —lt was one midnight as I was praying that the Foot of Things might be removed from off my throat that I heard that sacred and sacramental voice steal through the silence like a gleam of light made alive and devotional

So delicately is the human mind balanced that there never occurred a calamity involving great suffering and loss of life, that did not cause the illness, insanity, or even suicide of persons at near and great distances from the scene, who had no relationship to or acquaintance whatever with the victims. So delicate is the machinery of the human mentality that when great sorrow strikes a great number many fall into despair and even death through sheer sympathy. How, then, is it strange that the divine mysterious voice coming out of the thick midnight darkness should have proved to me like the gentle voice of Jesus fall-' ing upon the ear of Lazarus in the tomb. Death I Had I not been long intimate with him ?

And here was a promise of life punctually given on the dead hour whereat the Night turns upon itself groping its way to morning. Here was the matted darkness thrilling too, because My Lady was upon her way. Here was dead Hope made alive again. Low and long, and all along a charmed hour, with little pauses for God’s responses the devotional bird talked on. I tell you again it was not song—it was musical indescribable speech such as most surely links communions up between the angels and the birds in Paradise.

Shall I ever forget the singing star and this holy-voiced bird—the midnight Tui in his hallowed tree.

GOD AND THE BIRD. And “ Are you there ? ” he seemed to say, As lowly answered God — “Who is it questions me 1 pray— What bird is now abroad ? “ Who calls on me at this late hour When in their slumber deep Lies every fragrant folded flow’r And waves on waters sleep ? What tears or Tears by all unheard Disturb your gentle soul dear bird ? ”

“ Nay,” said the bird, “ it is of good— All good to me made known Of which I whisper from this wood To your eternal throne. At mid or night I see the light Rekindled and reborn. At dead or dark I see the lark A gold star in the morn. No tears or rears reach me above The beds or sleeping flowers. I wake to own I know thy love And thy almighty pow’rs, And that to-morrow I may sing To my dear Lady of the Spring.”

How gently and how kindly a man or a woman will talk to a bird, noiing the wisdom in its bright eyes. How much more gently, do you think, and wit!) how much greater power to imparl understanding does God talk to his friends of woodland, fen, and sea and sky ? It is given to man to interpret only a very little of what passes between them in their many sweet conversations.

Had I not been awake and waiting and longing for the coming of Herself, My Lady, I should not have known what now I knbw by the voices of the Star and the Bird. Not only is she coming, My Lady the Spring, but with great promise and in great gladness she is here.