NICHOLAS NYE

Sun (Auckland), Volume I, Issue 137, 31 August 1927, Page 6

NICHOLAS NYE

Thistle and darnel and dock grew there, And a bush, in the corner, of may. On the orchard wall 1 used to sprawl, In the blazing heat of the day; Half asleep and half awake. While the birds went fluttering by, And nobody there my lone to share But Nicholas Nye. Nicholas Nye was lean and grey. Lame of leg and old, More than a score of donkey’s years He had seen since he was foaled: He munched the thistles, purple and spiked. Would sometimes stoop and sigh, And turn his head, as if he said, •’Poor Nicholas Nye!” Alone with his shadow he’d drowse in the meadow, Lazily swinging his tail. At the break of day he used to bray— Not much too hearty and hale; But a wonderful gumption was under his skin. And a clear calm light in his eye, And once in a while he'd smile— Would Nicholas Nye. Seem to be smiling at me, he would. From his bush, in the corner, of Bony and ownerless, widowed and worn, Knobble-kneed, lonely and grey; And over the grass would seem to pass ’Neath the deep dark blue of the sky, Something much better than words between me And Nicholas Nyc.

But dusk would come in the apple boughs, The green of the glow-worm shine, And birds in nest would crouch to rest, And home I’d trudge to mine; And there, in the moonlight, dark with dew, Asking not wherefore nor why, Would brood like a ghost, and as still as a post. Old Nicholas Nye. WALTER DE LA MARE.