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MOTH

H URRY, my plane, harry the-altitudes of air, Burrow, bury your sweet nose in this soft earth In the sky, snow, hills for my bright deer, Great drifts banked, baked rows of bread Rolled for your keen teeth, slip of life, Bird, light in this wide waste, dead. Snow-flats and no tide of wind fo ride, My, bride, pillowed on a breath, a pulse, | No paths upon this crust of sky, no blood besides The provocation of your flight, child, daughter Of silver, fire. Without your shivering wings,

O who will walk on this white water?

Keith

Sinclair

This article text was automatically generated and may include errors. View the full page to see article in its original form.I whakaputaina aunoatia ēnei kuputuhi tuhinga, e kitea ai pea ētahi hapa i roto. Tirohia te whārangi katoa kia kitea te āhuatanga taketake o te tuhinga.
Permanent link to this item
Hononga pūmau ki tēnei tūemi

https://paperspast.natlib.govt.nz/periodicals/NZLIST19491230.2.17

Bibliographic details
Ngā taipitopito pukapuka

New Zealand Listener, Volume 22, Issue 549, 30 December 1949, Page 9

Word count
Tapeke kupu
99

MOTH New Zealand Listener, Volume 22, Issue 549, 30 December 1949, Page 9

MOTH New Zealand Listener, Volume 22, Issue 549, 30 December 1949, Page 9

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