VAGRANT VERSE
REST HOURS. In purple tangle of wild autumn-woods, About the desolate paths of field and heath, Or where red berries lightly twine and wreath, The ghostly spirit of the winter broods, And all is still In meadow or on hill, Save where a leaf falls dropping down to death. These are the rest hours of our mother earth, She sleeps in mantle wrought of leaf and fern; No doubts assail her or no memories burn Of rendered sacrifice for little worth. That which is sown she reaps, And faithful vigil keeps Until the wonder of the Spring’s return. Mists rise with evening on the chilly air, Wistfully wandering faintly grey and calm; The silence heard is like a whispered psalm. But yonder where is spread a city’s glare, Vast and waste, There men run to and fro in passionate haste, And know not rest from toil nor any balm.
—By Aimee Scott, in The Observer (London).
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https://paperspast.natlib.govt.nz/newspapers/ST19300603.2.41
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Southland Times, Issue 21099, 3 June 1930, Page 6
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158VAGRANT VERSE Southland Times, Issue 21099, 3 June 1930, Page 6
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