THE PRIZE POEM.

Wairarapa Age, Volume XXXII, Issue 10284, 12 July 1911, Page 5

THE PRIZE POEM.

, - AT THE MASTERTON COMPETITIONS. {Winner, Mm S. J. Edwards.) ■. A SONG OF EXILE. ; I'm swinging in my rocker, the room , is growing dim; My window frames a vignette of Tar-,| arua grim. _ | v And while the wind is wailing, and | moaning eerily, My thoughts go soaring homeward, ,j across the Tasman Sea. My fire is glowing redly, its flames are dying down, < "I close my eyes, and straightway, I'm hack in Sydney town. , My city of glad sunshine! Old Sydney of the hills! . • j With vivid brush of magis, my mem'ry's canvas fills. . ''" A little bit of heaven dropped from southern skies, In gold and turquoise setting, a matchless jewel lies; A scarlet patch of colour, the gardens and domain; .Blue mountains in the distance—l see them all again. Grey Martin Place is glowing, with daffodils, With blue and purple violets, and snowdrops from the hills; . • The quaint old flower-sellers witK baskets brimming high, Are chatting "n the sunshine, their. wares no need to cry.

A. glimpse of white yachts dancing upon the wondrous bay, Gay scenes of dear old Sydney, you draw my heart away. V The trams are whizzing madly up '•£.'"• dusty Brickfield Hill, And on the hay the ferries are plying with,a will. A Mare of martial music, the troops . are on parade. 'With glint of gold and scarlet, and '.■".: dazzling white cockade. "Now the band if? playing I To the ' .■.'■'•" lilt of ev'ry line,-' ■ i Tkfy head is swaying gently, my feet ' are marking time. The gorgeous shops in Pitt Street, the costumes on the Block; The belles, too. are parading in fur and dainty frock. The restaurants are crowded. The Dagoe's stalls -that line "The busy quay are floating a wealth of / fragrant pine. Bed roofs of Mosman glowing, across the dancing ware. A bird's song in the dis Lance, an organ on the pave; * "The flannelled tennis players upon the. velvet lawn, . 'All paths of southern-pleasure, are in my picture drawn. • A falling cinder wakes me. 'My castle' in the air Ts tumbling all around me—l'm in my rocking chair. My fire has died to embers, and ashes * grey; and yet They're not so sad and bitter as ashes of regret. Outside the rain is falling, the wind makes mournful moan, My weary heart is aching for scenes across the foam. I rise and draw the curtain on Tar- . arua grim, And light the gas to fright the ghosts ;that lurk in corners dim.