WOOD SMOKE

Sun (Auckland), Volume 1, Issue 71, 15 June 1927, Page 14

WOOD SMOKE

These are the moccasins a Princess wore, And these her diadems of quills and beads, Her love a brave who knew his forest lore, And that swift artistry the hunter needs. But when the day was done and dusk was dim, The arrow sped and conquest in the Red lips’ dark eyes, spelt more than life to him, Who burned the incense of his worship there. Gore now, the man, the maid, the birch canoe; The play of paddles down the silver stream, The teepee limned against the twilight blue, The night fire leaping like a light o’ dream. And who shall say down what enchanted shore Their feet still follow where adventure leads? These are the moccasins a Princess wore And these her diadems of quills and beads. , W.S.T.

THE SEA The sea is the consolation of this, our day, as it has been the consolation of the centuries. It is the companion and the receiver of men. It has moods for them to fill the storehouse of the mind, perils for trial or even for an ending, and cairns for the good emblem of death. There on the sea is a man nearest to his own making and in communion with that from which he came and to which he shall return. The sea is the matrix of creation and we have the memory of it in our blood. But far more than this is there in the sea. It presents, upon the greatest scale we mortals can bear, those not mortal powers which brought us into being. It is not only the symbol or the mirror, but especially is it the message of the Divine. There, sailing the sea, we play every part of life—control, direction, effort, fate, and there can we test ourselves and know our state. All that which concerns the sea is profound and final. The sea provides darknesses, revelations. The sea puts. ever before us those twin faces of reality—greatness and certitude —greatness stretched almost to the edge of infinitjr. and the certitude of a level remaining for ever and standing upon the deeps. The sea has taken me to itself whenever I sough* it and has given me relief from men. It has rendered remote the cares and wastes of the land: for of all cratures that move and breathe upon the earth, we of mankind are the fullest of sorrow. But the sea shall comfort us and perpetually show us new things and assure us. It is the common sacrament of the world. May it be to others what it has been to me. —HILAIRE BELLOC. THE RAGWORT The thistles on the sandy flats Are courtiers with crimson hats; The ragworts, growing up so straight, Are emperors who stand in state. And march about, so proud and bold. In crowns of fairy-story gold. The people passing home at night Rejoice to see the shining sight. They quite forget the sands and sea Which are as grey as grey can be, Nor ever heed the gulls who cry Like peevish children in the skv. —FRANCES CORNFORD. *■