# Shingle-Short and Other Verses/The Paddock - Song of the White Clover

The Paddock.
Song of the White Clover.
Up from my sheets of green-and-gold, And soft brown bed, Straight in the Sun alert I hold My happy head; And see, beneath the stainless Blue, Merry with Morning, quick with Dew, The whole World springing up from sleep. Eager, and new!
The Lark, already hid in height. Rapturous sings; The Bee, already, hangs on bright Sun-warmed wings. Veil-less the Mountains meet the day, Little and light the Breezes play, The early work of Morn is sped Well on its way.
I, too, must fill with all my might, Faithful, my place. And flush with freshest green-and-white This Paddock-space. ​Lofty the russet Fern may grow, The tufty Tussock shining go Mile upon mile outside the fence, But inside—No!
A barren rootlet, here and there, I can espy: A patch of pasture, nibbled bare, Dewless and dry. Green seas of Growing shall enlap, Narrow and overflow the gap— Hither, and help! O Earth and Air, Sunshine and Sap.
To-day, to-day! of your full store Twofold I’d take; And more of leaves and blossoms, more Of honey make. Rich mouthfuls shall the Pony pull To-day, to-day the hives grow full, Plump and content the leaping Lambs, Thick, thick the wool!
(Enter with buckets and a basket, Elizabeth.)
Elizabeth: Daisy! Daisy! Come, Cherry, come!....No need of much calling! There, little calves, take your breakfast!
Now you, Jill, my orphan.—Gently, creature, gently! You a lamb, indeed!....Ah, would you? and spill half the bucket again, I suppose, as you did yesterday! You grow too strong, Jill, and too greedy! You will soon have to grow up, I can see, and eat only grass.
​Well, Mother Heavy-top, what news of you this morning? Come off a minute, and let me see. (She scatters grain.) What! Five, already—and a couple more shells chipp’d? Well done, old lady! Now, only a little more patience, and won’t you be proud, by-and-by?
How pretty the house looks from here!....
....Ah! how I love it. Stump and stone, Tussock and turf—the whole dear place! Each bit of boarding in the walls, Each drop of water in the race! Nothing so common but it’s rare, So coarse, but I can find it fair, So wanting, worn, or out of gear, But oh, it’s precious—being here! You, little twig on yonder tree, More by a mine you are to me Than all the forests grown elsewhere. The very clouds that wander by, The sun that sees, the roofing sky, Grow, by their neighbourhood, so dear, That....Ah! I cannot see them clear. My blessed, blessed home!....Let be! You’ll have the whole heart out of me— A little more, and it must break With loving and felicity!
Nay, but sure to any eye, Beautiful you needs must be:— ’Twixt the black, Bush-cover’d hills, And yon tussock’s tawny sea, Spreading out this isle of clean, Fresh and flock-besprinkled green: ​With your blue-gums’ airy height, Silver poplars’ laughing light, Depth and richness of the pines. And that peak of ruddy roof Through the orchard-blossoms’ woof, Livening the sombre hills, Breaking up the level lines, Pointing, painting, the wan plain, Which, beyond and all about Reuniting, runs again— Yes! a real flat sea spread out (Only with no ships to swim) To yon round horizon-rim Everyway,—save hard at hand, Where, above us and the Bush, Snow-bright, shadow-deep and grand, Up! the mighty mountains stand; And their blue-and-silver wall Guards and crowns and closes all.
Ay, to come upon you thus, Smiling, settled and serene —Home amid the wilderness— Even strangers must confess Comfort in your lovely look, Pleasure in your happiness. Ah, but how much lies unseen! Over, under, in between, How much more is here for us— Us, whose hearts your history know: Who, like soil about your root, Sap within your springing shoot, Have endured, and striven and wrought, Stay’d your struggles, help’d you grow, ​Felt the tardy blossoms blow, Ay—and now can bask and glow In your glowing ripening fruit!
We were young—too young, I said, When he first proposed the plan; Mother blind, my hands were full; We could wait awhile to wed? Andrew smiled, and shook his head, Took the section, and began, Working on the road the while, As he could, to fall and burn. —Eh! we had a lot to learn. We were young and hopeful-hearted. Ten years we’ve been married now— But it’s twenty since we started.
First, there came his accident: Weeks of Hospital: next year, Debt, instead of Bush, to clear! Then, wet seasons, and he had No help, and the “burns” were bad. Next, his father died, and Don’ Was but quite a laddie, so Andrew took their farming on, And his own had just to go. Then, at length, when years had seen Mostly all the young ones wed: When the land was coming clean, Fences up, and shearing-shed, Apple-trees in bearing round Such a well-stock’d garden-ground, ​And the homestead all but done, And the battle all but won:— Came the big Bush-fire! So then All was to begin again.
Well, again it was begun. What you paddocks lack’d in luck Was made up to you in pluck, Oh, it was! and patient skill, Yes, and splendid, stubborn will.
’Twasn’t long from that, when first Mother, and then Father, died. All the rest were off and settled, Janet, just, was left beside. Then: “I’m warning you; think well!” Andrew said, “I’m still behind, But—O lassie! should you mind? Could you manage? ’Twill be tough.... Could you live in half a home?” “Yes!” I told him—if ’twas his, ‘Half of half would be enough’; And he answer’d, “Thank God! Come!”
Aunt took Janet for a while, And I came,—came here! The track Lost itself in rocks and bogs, And through grass less green than black With the pell-mell stumps and logs. Suddenly it stopp’d—I saw, Thro’ the whips of driving rain, And a blasted Rimu’s boughs, —Oh! so naked, rough and raw, ​Stumps and logs behind, before, Paddock to the very door— Just a clearing, and a house. Some potatoes round it grew, Here and there, a sapling tree Was just big enough to see, That was all, and that was—You!
Inside, Oh! ’twas worse. I mind, Shelves and doors were all to find, Only two rooms even lined, And the stove dump’d down outside. I was tired—I could have cried! Andrew stood and look’d at it, Then he turn’d, and look’d at me Struggling that he shouldn’t see. “Ay!” says he, “So little done!” Oh, that dear, good, grieving face, And that disappointed tone, Fire and wine they were within me!— “No!” I cried, “So much begun! Why it’s just a new-made world Given to us two to run— Us, lad! Won’t that mend the moan? Us! not you, nor me alone.”
Did it matter? Not one bit, When I look’d that way at it. Ay thank God! It was “us two!” After those long years apart, When we toil’d, and moil’d, and waited, Solitary, separated, ​There we were at last,—at home, Hand-in-hand, and heart-to-heart, Sharing, caring, two together— Nothing that we couldn’t weather!
So, we went to work, we two. Built and blasted, stump’d and sow’d, Logg’d-up, dug, and drain’d and hoed, Milk’d, of course, and made the cheese, Fenced the paddocks, and the road, Plough’d a bit, and planted trees, Rear’d the poultry, started bees. Up at earliest blink of light, Often with the stars still bright, He’d be off, to sledge-in wood; Mostly I’d to bake at night; And we’d many pricks and pinches— Progress only came by inches; But, it came! We said it should! Yes, we got on, bit by bit, Fighting every inch of it; Day by day, and year by year Saw some blemish disappear, Something else come clean and clear; And the kindly creatures kept At their growing while we slept. Ay, we’d only fix’d the yards, Just the week the boy was born (I remember, as I lay, Picturing how he’d help, some day!); Two years back, when Jeanie came, Why, we’d near five hundred shorn! ....That first season, when we found Things were really coming round— ​What a hand it seem’d to lend!.... Good times follow’d, wool and stock Up, and steady as a rock— Till we settled I could send For poor Janet; yes, and still, Step by step, we’ve gone up-hill, Slow, but sure and steady; till Andrew rode to Town, to pay The last shilling, yesterday!
In the evening, coming back, There I met him, on the track That we took, those ten years since, And we rode, this time, all round That once rough-and-tumble ground. No need, now, to sigh, or wince, Choke the tears, or mend a moan— There lay our Bush Section: grown, Paddocks, You! and all our own.
When you’re climbing yonder peak— Down the swamp, across the creek, Up through Bush—the track is rough, And the up-hill scramble tough; When you’ve done it, and come out— Up and down and round about, Oh, the air! and such a view! —From our hill-top of What Is, So we view now What Has Been. What a difference in the scene! Friendly, smiling, now it lies, Panting Past, from tranquil Present Almost picturesque and pleasant. ​What a change, too, in our eyes! From this vantage-point of view Over they can see, and through: Watch the struggle from the winning: Glad and grateful comprehend Doubtful road and dark beginning In this proud and prosperous end. Nay—this morning’s blue is brighten’d By the night’s rain overpast, Happiness is help’d and heighten’d By the relish of At Last— ’Tis because we struggled we Taste so sweet our victory!
For ’tis done, the long, long strife! It’s all over, the stiff climb! Now, good friends at last with Life, We can pause and take our time;— Breathing free now on the summit (Vigour pulsing, for our pains, Hot and merry through our veins), View the scene, enjoy the breeze, Take the breath of basking flowers, And afford some easy hours; Then, through level lawns of grass, In a pathway straight and sure, Leisurely the road retaking, Still together onward pass. While, no more in scuds and gleams, Pray’d-for, hoped-for, far-off, near, Fortune’s random rays appear— No! its shining self is here. Right o’erhead its radiance beams, Kind, continual, and clear! ​Quick and general as the breeze, Joy enspirits us, brisk Content Thrills the air, like clover-scent With a mountain crispness blent, And Love, the faithful lark, can fly And sing, now, in a cloudless sky.
I wonder, has Life more to give! O liberal and delicious days, When all my duty is, to live, Love, and be happy, and give praise! Happy? why, in such employ, Every breath’s an added joy, Every pulsing of the blood Hearty is, and must do good! Still we work—of course we do, We’re alive! but work is pleasure, Done by choice, and done at leisure; And the work that, day by day, Now, I lightly waken to, Always fresh and full of zest— Helping, forwarding along On its right and proper way, Everything I love the best— Why, it’s better far than play! —First the creatures, and the plants, Pretty souls! to be supplied With the little natural wants It’s so natural to provide; Then—O God! the dearer farm, The far richer garden-ground, Tasking with delicious toil:— Priceless bodies to keep sound, ​Hearts to fence from hurt or harm, Opening minds from blight or soil. Oh, the blessed daily round! Sowing, weeding, letting be, Now in patience watching, now Revelling in discovery.... Kings and Queens might envy me! Nay, and am I not a Queen, Throned amid my world of love? Monarch, servant, mother of Little Andy, little Jean!
Better yet, ay! best of all, Clearer every day to trace The handwriting of release —Patience brightening into Peace— In the faithful furrow’d face, In the heart more true than Truth: With whose every throb I feel As one cannot, quite, in youth. Ah, in those chill years apart, Dealing trustfully and true, Nearer yet our natures grew; That shared struggle heart to heart, Soul to soul, more deeply drew:— Till, so knitted now, so near, So to one-ness are we grown, Not one shred of me’s alone! All I say, or mean, or do, Hope, or dream, is mixt with you— Andrew! are we one or two? In the eternal years ahead! Can we come more closely wed? ​Thus each glorious day goes by In unhurried industry; And each night, the dear day done, Brings no setting to our sun. Sweet, sweet life, that knows no change! —Just what Janet finds so strange. I must get that child away For a good long holiday; Young things need to rove and range. But Oh! I triumph in my lot! Oh! I glory in my life! Could my fortune be more fair? ....Mistress of my home-made home, Mother of my happy pair, Happy Andrew’s happy wife!
Sometimes, in the quiet night, I lie still and think it over, Feel and finger o’er my joys, As my Jeanie does her toys. Till, as, drowsied with delight, Down the darling sinks to sleep, Carelessly in careful arms Cradled safely, nestling deep: So I, slipping out of thought, Sure of nothing else, still feel Folded safe in happiness, Buoy’d up in the great Caress Of some lasting, world-wide Weal; Mighty; more than all things, Real!
Shallow, once, quite dry in drought, Lay my little rock-bound well; Pain his fuse and powder brought, ​Patiently, and long he wrought.... Then, when rains of rapture fell,
Lo, the miracle!
Not alone in larger measure Smiling shone the heaven-sent treasure, But, within the hollowing Of the torn and broken earth, See, Oh see! a living spring Blasted into birth! Daily, daily, more and more Drawing from its unseen store: Gushing, rushing, welling free, Welling, swelling, filling up Even this, my deepen’d cup.— Filling up? Ay! brimming over....
Oh! it is too much for me. To the All-holding Reservoirs, To the never-sounded Sea, Of Your Joy, O Heart Divine! Take the overflow of mine. (She stands silent.)