West Coast Scene.

I saw the sea lean like a lovely girl, Her cheek against the land's maternal
breast
(Her smooth green cheek against that
golden breast).
And as she lay, her cool white feet
were pressed
Into the gleaming sandals of the sand,
While lupins dripped their honey in
her hair,
And grave gulls chained her whitely
to blue air …
And she slept on, abandoned to her
rest,
Like some young lovely girl of languid
grace
Who feels the sun upon her sea-green
eyes,
The fingers of the wind upon her face.

—Una Auld.

* * *

Invasion.

Must this war be?
And must we die so soon?
Must I go from you, leaving you
alone? …
Soon spring will bloom, but not for
you or me—
We will not see the sunlight at high
noon
Lighting the straight and gallant daffodils,
Nor stand together on the windy
hills… .
When we are gone, the sun will shine
the same
Joyous and gay: still will the moon
be cold.
But done for us is youth's sweet
thoughtless game,
Nor shall we know the peace of growing old.

—Stuart McCrae.

* * *

Here In This Lovely Place.

Here in this lovely place
Day breaks in music, the long fields lie
Friendly, and calm through the careful
rows
Of trees, like cool green flames that
pierce
The slow blue splendour of the sky.
And here the people know
The soft, kind speech of the simple
grass;
They walk their ways with the tall
straight trees;
And their songs are tuned to the sky's
blue dream
Where the silent white clouds stray
and pass.
Here in this lovely place
The white stars steal within your
breast
When day shuts softly like a flower.
Here surely may the young men find
Their dreams again: the old men, rest.

—A. J. Diprose.

* * *

Piha Beach.

We shall be home in the warm bed
soon, our lips will be crushed in
sleep;
But the wide grey mouth of this
beaten beach will be gaping to the
deep.
We shall be wrapped in peace and
love, we shall have food
and rest;
But you, O sand, are you tired, tired,
of the cold waves on your breast?
When the hurrying darkness frightens
day, there'll be dreams to close our
eyes;
But the weary shore is awake all
night for her vigil with the skies.
While the dull mist falls to hide the
sun we are going to warmth and
rest …
And the hungry beach is left alone,
with the cold waves on her breast.

—Betty Carr Rollett.

* * *

Elusive Thoughts.

Now summer braids her hair with
flowers
And through the meadow grass
Bright butterflies about my feet
Fly startled as I pass.
And in my mind a thousand thoughts—
Dream-shadows, half revealed—
Flit by like souls of butterflies
Across a moonlit field.
But never can my eager hand
Arrest them as they stray;
They flutter just beyond my reach,
And then—they fly away.

—Jean H. Mather.

* * *

Hole In The Wall.

Gold ran our dripping oar-blades
And swirled gold pools behind;
Gold was our wavering, shining wake
That trailed us like a jewelled snake;
Gold the sun's pathway on the lake.
In glory all combined.
Before our prow black ramparts
Of tall cliffs starkly rose;
Blocked the bright sky, cast shadow
down,
Leapt to one darkly-jutting crown—
A pinnacle whose glooming frown
Bade further passage close.
And you said—young Moana
Whose eyes the sun perplexed—
You said we should not longer steer
Our boat's course toward those ramparts
sheer—
Ramparts that towered nearer—near,
Whose feet the white surf vexed.
The lake, it seemed, was ended;
All we could do was turn;
When straight before our dazzled eyes
The cliffs fell back, and hidden-wise
Opened a gate for our surprise—
A gateway hung with fern.
So quietly we floated
The oars’ dip was too loud.
We floated through, and then there lay
And sought our gaze for miles away
Another lake as fair as day,
Dream-fair as any cloud.

—Phillis Garrard Rowley (Bermuda Islands).