TO WILSON.

New Zealand Tablet, 18 September 1919, Page 9

TO WILSON.

(For the N.%. Tablet.) Although you speak wide words I will not hark again, Your words like flutes have called me from, my moor, From road and blos’my lane. They made the way seem light across the blue sea-floor, Till I should reach with song and speech your door, And yet for all your words, I weary in the rain. Was it for Slavs alone you spoke your dream out wide ? How have I failed your quest, what have I left undone, That you to none beside Should give their strip of sky, their hills, their streams that run ? Their bonds to mine are threads; their storm is sunAnd yet I hooded kneel, and wait upon your pride. One hour you held the world like to a seed of grain . Within your hollowed hand, as no man hath before The hour comes not again. ’Tis not enough to speak, to speak, and nothing more, When hands are broken on your stubborn door, For all your flowing words my hood is drenched with rain. —E.D.