  She stood before the tent, a winging tent In thicknesses of canvas, taut and strong, Burning beneath a sun unreticent, Raised upon planks, and lashed with rope and thong. And she was fair, a sprig of English May, Born for the kiss of merriment and day. Wide from the tent, like swell on swell of sea The great veld swept and rolled in curves away, A shabby patch of God's eternity Neglected by the angels, bare and grey, Wind-swept and solitary. Dick and she Had made this veld their home for seasons three. Well she remembered that first reckless ride, Their wedding journey over spruit and land, The barbed-wire straggling snares, the kopje side, The crumbling blockhouse dreaming of command, Holding a loot of empty pot and tin, Which once had held a soldier guard within. The mud-dogged drift, the dust all baked and red Twisting in spiral devils, raw as rust, Those lonely crosses leaning on their dead, Murmuring Africa was never just. "She knows no pity," shrieked the fierce South wind, "She steals your youth and stultifies your mind." On, on they flew, past Kaffir boom and kraal, Thorn wacht-een-beetje, fleshy aloe clump, Through the charred stretches of the high Transvaal, By meerkat hole, and rounded white-ant hump Of tunnelled earth. She laughed; the air was wild, Strong with exhilaration, undefiled. At last they reined. Across the scrub and veld Dick pointed with his sjambok to the white Outspreading tent, then to the wattle belt That marshalled thinly in the shimmering light. "There lies our home, dear love, for you and me." She looked up gladly, smiled him tenderly. Summer had followed winter, radiant, rich, Reckless with life, extravagant in bloom, Mad for the first wild draught of water, which Burst from the thunder-clouds, whose massive gloom Blackened the skies, then splitting, ripped and tore Deep gorges through the tracks, with deafening roar. The storms swept by. A fairyland of green Mantled the waking plains; wide star-like flowers Sprang to their feet; the streams ran strong and clean, The soft mimosa sprinkled into showers Of golden balls. The oleander hedge Swayed to the line of gums with leaves on edge. And it was summer now. Beth crossed the sloot, Grown arrogant with rains, which lapped her square Of gorgeous garden, swirling to the spruit Beyond, in childish hurry. Was he there? Of man or beast to break the distance line. Stay, was that he beyond the drift? Ah no, Only her wishes trembling in the air And mirage heat. A train sedate and slow Wheeled round the kopje far away. The glare Of brazen sun beat in her eyes. Too late!— He would not come to-night! In lonely state She must endure these o'ercharged dragging hours, This th' unspoken horror of her life, The dread that sapped her strength, and drained her powers, The guarded secret of a brave man's wife! Dick would come back to-morrow with the light Of morn. But fear would be her Lord to-night. Beth turned her to the stoep. With sensuous breath The moonflower drenched the garden in its scent, Ardent, voluptuous, and white as death It hung long blossoms, heavy with intent. The morning glories folded into sleep. Lay purple in undress, and slumber deep. Behind the wattles rose the circled moon, Splashing her silver over poort and track. The boys went chattering to their kraals, and soon Long shadows ribbed the tent in white and black. Beth closed the entrance fast, then slowly sped, A lonely woman, to a lonely bed. * * * * * Come away, Come away, Come, come, come away, For the moon, For the moon Wove a shroud in the day, All of white, All of white, Which she flings over all In the night, In the night Like a pall, In the night, in the night. Come away, Come away, Come, come, come away, For the moon, For the moon Threw my blossoms a ray, They are white, Deadly white, And their petals are pale, Wan and light. Do not fail, Come away—in the night. Come away, Come away, Come, come, come away, For the moon, For the moon And my scent, Oh my scent Which I waft over all, Is of death! Feel its breath! And the moon made a pall Which she lent to us all, To us all! Come away.... Come away, Come, Come, Come.... "Come, come!"—The sleeper moved. An argent shroud Woven with silver cross-stitch into stars. Was that the moonflower singing from the cloud? Why were its petals bruised and veined with scars? "Come!"—It was not the moonflower. Wide awake Beth started up. That voice!—For pity's sake! PRINTED IN GREAT BRITAIN |
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