The Vision.

The years, like oxen in the yoke, Draw home their heavy load of dreams, Forgotten are the men that spoke, The hours of calm, the storms that broke, The hills and swamps and streams, Deeds pass and cannot come again, But dreams, the wealth of man, remain. On some high peak we paused to see The morning light a yellow land. We heard the wind-song in a tree; And all the pathless woods were free For strenuous will and hand. Then came the dream, and far we saw The magic lights of home and law. The sweat upon the toilers brow. The eager might of turning wheels, The axe that bids the forest bow, The flying loom, the striving plough And ships with restless keels Last for their moment and are gone; Only the deathless dream stays on. We, on the white mans frontier set, Have driven far our flocks afield; In splendid toil our hands have met, And in the vales of No-regret Old wounds of time were healed. But for that thing we truly know Our feet have far and far to go. Old well-contented nations died Of plenty in their smiling lands, Deeming an hour of flaunting pride And triumph stayed and petrified Honored their idle hands. Full harvest turned to slow contempt For braver dreams their fathers dreamt. The dream we dreamt has set a flame Of purpose on thoughts topmost heights; The honor of an ancient name, The deeds upon the scroll of fame, These are but lesser lights Of that large glory that can give The hope by which we move and live.

The years, like oxen in the yoke, Draw home their heavy load of dreams. When one white vision on us broke A magic in our souls awoke; And till the last light gleams Oer mounds of long forgotten dust We hold a holy thing in trust.
Pat OMaori. Pseudonym of David McKee Wright. N.S.W. The Bulletin, 6 August 1925.