The New Zealand Nightingale.

The thrush each morning lifts his head
In joyous ecstasy,
And from his throat there spills a note,
A silken Rhapsody.

With peerless purity of sound
His song falls—passionless—
And floats, like bubbles, on a stream
Of turgid heaviness.

Sing on brown bird of merry heart
Sweet minstrel of the dawn.
With wondrous music gild the hour
That wakes the sleeping morn.

—Rhoda Hare.

* * *

The Song of Twilight.

Hushed lies the earth, the woods in beauty slumber,
And long blue shadows steal across the sea;
Silent and still, the world in breathless wonder
Awaits the darkening hour that sets me free

Softly, oh softly, o'er the whispering grasses,
Over the gardens filled with trembling flowers,
Softly I enter, just as daylight passes,
Bringing the gentlest of the radiant hours.

Just as the shadows fall, when day is closing,
Over the hills I come, and o'er the sea.
I leave the troubled earth in peace reposing,
Beneath my power, unrest and sorrow flee.

—Jean H. Mather.

* * *

My Garden.

My garden is enchanted just as dawn is breaking through,
With its carpet of forget-me-nots a'-gleaming ‘neath the dew;
When scarlet poppies curtsey in the playful morning breeze,
And a choir of feathered songsters sings the sweetest melodies.

My garden is enchanted just as day is nearly done
With its host of pink-tipped daisies turning yellow in the sun;
When busy bees are stealing, and a Bright-eyed warbler sings,
And the sunset spills its amber where the honeysuckle swings.

My garden is enchanted just as twilight ends the day,
With evening breezes bringing you the scent of lilac gay;
When weary birds are nesting, and the Black-eyed Susans sleep,
And purple shadows linger where the rambling roses creep.

My garden is enchanted just as stars are peeping through,
With silver night-moths lurking where the kowhai spreads its hue;
When stardust lightly tinsels every pale anemone,
And rustling leaves and branches play a magic symphony.

—Mavis Brown.

* * *

Lovely Things.

There are many lovely things—
Things lovely to the sight,
Things lovely to the touch,
That stir dim memories
And rouse vague longings
For that Perfection man has never known.
Moonlight spilling on a tideless, lonely lake;
Sunrise warming in a maiden blush,
The virgin snow on scarred and storm-wracked peak.
Aspiring poplars, sibilant in the breeze
And golden in the heat of autumn's passion;
And spindle trees and scarlet oaks which flame and throb
In one last flaunting burst of ecstasy
To swoon in frosty winter's kindly lap.
Mosses golden-green and diamond-wet,
And speckled foxgloves tipping jubilant spears
That proudly bear their pendant flushing burdens;
Purple grapes that hold within the silver downy skins
The nectar born of sun and mist;
Currants red, of faery made, and berried tutu,
With polished jet globes gleaming.

There are many lovely things,
Lovely things fashioned by man,
Fashioned of thread and stone and hide,
Fashioned in grief and love and pain.
Brocades and satins softly shining,
Velvets of wine and purple royal,
Leather bound books lettered in gold and blue—
The blue of heaven and Mary's cloak;
Squat fat bowls for dusky wallflowers red
And curving statuettes in ivory and bronze
All smoothly wrought and gleaming dully
With the last faint glow of fire
Kindled in pride by deft and patient craftsman.
And windows flooding medieval blues and reds
On pews of oak and floors of stone
Worn by the quiet feet of centuries of worshippers.
These are such lovely, lovely things.

But there are ugly cruel things—
Sneaking submarines, and gas that rends and kills,
And lying greed and vanity in men.
Shall these kill those, the many lovely things?

—Catherine Keddell.