OUT OF TUNE.

New Zealand Graphic, Volume VIII, Issue 48, 28 November 1891, Page 626

OUT OF TUNE.

Sweet little maid ! whose golden-rippled head Betwixt my grief and me its beauty rears With quick demand for song—all singing’s dead ; My heart is sad, I cannot sing for tears. Nay, do not ask me why : I cannot sing— Mine ill-tuned notes would do sweet music wrono I have no smile to greet the laughing spring, No voice to join in summer’s tide of song. More from the forest s dying splendour takes My heart its hymn, and fuller sympathy Finds with the hurricane November wakes To tear its tribute from each groaning tree. Ur when the last sere leaves in winter fall, While all the world in grim frost-fetters lies, I’ll envy them the snowflakes’ gentle pall That hides their sorrows from the frowning skies. Were it not sweet to slumber at Earth’s breast, O’er the mad scene to pull the curtain down, Never to feel again the drear unrest Of battled love or unfulfilled renown— The weariness of patient work uncrowned, The bitter medicine of hope destroyed, The fierce desire, the thing desired found Void of enjoyment when at last enjoyed ? Nay, dear, not now, not yet ! let the slow yearsFulfil their office. Oft, at close of day, The far grim range all beautiful appears, Kissed into kindness by the sunset ray. So bygone sorrow takes a tenderer hue, So time can tinge the memory of pain, Old songs are ever sweeter than the new, And some day, sweet, we’ll sing them all again.

R. Warwick Bond.