Lament of an Exile
p. 45 · Read in the full issue
WHEN I grow tired of tropic evergreens, Of swaying palms along the coral shore, I have a longing then for rural scenes In dear old England; rolling downs and moor; For woodland glades, or little sunny dells, Where primroses and violets nod their heads With stately daffodils and slim bluebells Arising from their soft, green mossy beds.
When my big bungalow upon the hill, With swaying punkahs and verandah wide, Seems nothing but a home for every ill, I picture me the Devon countryside; An old thatched cottage in a shady lane, With low, oak ceilings and a parquette floor, And honeysuckle round each window pane, With rambler roses climbing round the door.
When I grow weary of my tropic club, With lounging planters sipping iced cocktails I want to enter some small country pub.
With aged rustics drinking good mulled Seated in high-backed settles ’round the fire: While cheery Boniface, behind the bar, Depicts the true Mine Host in full attire; And all are well-content with what they are.
And when the day is done and shadows fall With hastened speed, as in all tropic lands, My world is filled with insects great and small, All chirping ceaselessly like massed brass bands; ’Tis then I want the English twilight hours.
With shadows lengthening slowly o’er the grass.
And perfume of the honeysuckle flowers . . .
Ah, God! Grant that some day ’twill come to pass.
G.T.
South Seas, 8/8/45.